Ramble On
by blackdog-lz
Summary: Collection of the prompts I have filled
1. Inside Sherlock's Head

Author's Note: These are prompts I filled over on the bbc sherlock kink meme. I will update, whenever I have filled a new prompt. Hope you like them.

Disclaimer: They unfortunately don't belong to me and I don't make any money with this either.

Prompt: seeing what Sherlock was thinking when he saw John in that position at the end (we all saw him panicking when he was getting the coat off John) and in what happened afterwards.  
Bonus: We see what Sherlock decided to do at the end.

Character Death, also I've rewritten it and had it beta'd by the awesome donutsweeper. I also have a sequel up that can be read in Chapter 16: Endgame

* * *

**Inside Sherlock's Head**

His mind was yelling at him, big block letters of, "No, no, no." Sherlock knew he had been wrong before. A rare occurrence, but it had happened. However, he doubted that he could have been that wrong about the man he had been sharing quarters with for the past few months. John Watson couldn't be that good of an actor to fool Sherlock for that long. His eyes scanned John's appearance. Rapidly blinking eyes, sweaty forehead and unnaturally pale, even accounting for the rather bad lightning in the pool. And then there was the rather atrocious green parka. It was much too thick for the heated swimming pool. John's voice sounded off too. It wasn't the sure, steady tone that he was used to. There were slight hesitations between the sentences, fluctuations in the tone.

No, it wasn't John. Moriarty was using him as his puppet, just like the old lady, just like the child.

When John opened the parka and revealed the bomb strapped to his chest, Sherlock's heart caught in his throat, even though he didn't outwardly showed it. Instead he turned around, looked for this elusive Moriarty, even though Sherlock didn't even know what the man looked like. But he must be around somewhere close, must be watching them. Because otherwise this game would be boring.

The bomb and the words John spoke scared Sherlock. A small red dot appeared on John's chest and Sherlock needed to take a deep breath, needed to look away and instead continued to search his surroundings.

He knew that both of them could die at a moment's notice. While he did not cared much about his own life, John's was not going to be taken tonight.

It was the screeching of a door that finally forced him to focus on something else. The man that appeared was less than impressive, short and unable to keep up the same speech pattern for more than a minute, but still gloating about his deeds, about what he could do.

The revelation of just who Moriarty was, was like a punch in his face. The first and only consulting criminal against the first and only consulting detective. John was just caught in the crossfire. Anger rose in him, but unlike John, Sherlock was a good actor and held it in. Pretended to be not rattled by the events, while his mind was running and lightning speeds, trying to find a way to stop Jim. Without a doubt, Sherlock knew that he would anything to stop that mad man from continuing his criminal empire and one glance at John and Sherlock knew that his friend would do anything to stop Moriarty too.

They came so close, with John tackling Moriarty from behind. Sherlock had never been more worried, more proud, when he realized that John was willing to die for him too. But he must admit that Moriarty had planned for all eventualities. While John clearly was willing to die, he was not willing to let Sherlock die over this. Moriarty knew that they were each other's weakness and was using it against them.

It took him some effort to relax his fingers and not pull the trigger after the pet comment. But he kept his calm, kept the gun pointed at Moriarty) and pretended that nothing could shake him.

He couldn't however suppress the sigh of relief as soon as Moriarty was gone. Sherlock rushed toward John, asked him if he was okay and the detective really just wanted that bomb gone**.** He kicked it away for good measure, so that it was far out of eyeshot.

He tried to thank John for his altruism, but all that came up was garbled nonsense. Not that it mattered much, because John proceeded to ignore his appreciation and they fell back into their routine of taking everything that had happened with a grin and a stupid comment. That was far easier than to acknowledge the actual feeling.

The bantering felt good, reliable now that the threat was over and Sherlock already saw them sitting in Baker Street, trying to figure out how to stop Moriarty without any of them getting killed.

But his plans were burst the second he saw the red dots dancing across John's chest. Then Moriarty returned and even thought Sherlock could not see John's expression, he knew that it mirrored his own. Exasperation and determination.

The slight nod was all he needed really. Moriarty needed to be stopped with all possible means even if it could cost their own lives. But knowing that John trusted him, trusted him to blow themselves to a kingdom come, that he didn't believe in, helped him focus, helped him to stay strong. It was for the greater good after all. What was two lives compared to the unknown number Moriarty would and could kill?

He didn't close his eyes as he pulled the trigger, couldn't pull his gaze away from Moriarty's face. Because this time the surprise was real and not just played. It gave him a momentary feeling of satisfaction and he let it play across his eyes, even as he felt the recoil of the gun in his hands.

Two things happened simultaneously after he had pulled the trigger. Sherlock felt the impact of a bullet, high in his back and was thrown forward by it and the vest exploded.

The noise and light were incredible, nothing he had ever experienced before could be compared to that. The sudden burst nearly blinded him, even as his eardrums vibrated from the echoing thunder of the explosion. When the shockwave crashed into him, Sherlock was lifted off his feet. He didn't know how long he was in the air, but expected to hit hard concrete on his landing, instead water swallowed him.

Brilliant orange spread over the water's surface and he could feel his lungs straining for air, but not much else. He was floating serenely in the water, watching as the first and biggest flames of the blast disappeared, leaving weak orange light flickering across the surface.

He watched the blurred fire for a while, before his lungs were nearly tearing apart with the lack of oxygen. Only then did he slowly started to swim. With the first voluntary moments of his limbs, the pain ruptured through his body. It was not just the pain of the bullet, but also the strained and torn muscles of being thrown around like a ragdoll.

One though however pushed him onward and to the surface. John. With his last bit of strength, Sherlock grabbed the pool's edge and pulled himself out of the water. He only managed to draw his upper body to the tiled surface, his legs were still floating in the water, powerless and tired.

The explosion had blown away the changing rooms further in the back. His mind was fuzzy and cloudy, and didn't want to believe his eyes as he watched the flames burning away the last curtains. Sherlock blinked water out of his eyes, tried to clear his view. But the sight remained the same.

Nothing was left of the area where John had been sitting. That could only mean one thing. One that he didn't want to be true. Sherlock's heart ached while the rest of his body was slowly getting numb. Somewhere deep in his addled brain this registered as a sign of dying, but Sherlock didn't care anymore. His best friend was dead, so he didn't mind dying either.

He barely registered shrieking sirens coming closer, as he gave into his body's wish and closed his eyes, let himself be carried away into nothingness.

* * *

When he woke up again, he didn't know how much time had passed. It was morning and the sun illuminated a white ceiling and white walls and Sherlock knew that he was in a hospital.

Given the general numbness of his body, he was on some heavy duty pain killers. Still, he didn't want to move, so Sherlock just stared at the ceiling, watched the clouds going by and tried to figure out what had brought him here.

The minute it all came back, Sherlock frantically reached for the call button and pressed it. He could hear his racing heart in the frantic beating of the monitor, but all his head was registering was John. If he had survived, maybe so had John. He held on to that thread of hope, needed to really, because he couldn't dare to think about John dead. Finally the door opened and a nurse pushed her head in, a bright grin on her face, "Mr Holmes, good to see you awake, I'll go get a doctor right away."

"No." His voice was rough with disuse and he wondered just how long he had been lying in that bed and he couldn't finish asking the nurse where John was, because she was already gone again.

Frustrated, he stared back at the ceiling, trying to figure out the range of his injures. The morphine prevented that, because he couldn't feel much of anything. There was a dull throb in his back, but he could move his arms and legs. Other than that he had some bruises, but most of them were healing, changing already from blue to green. Scratches were also almost healed and he knew that he had been in that bed far too long.

The door opened again. This time it was a doctor that came in. Sherlock tried to ask her about John, but she just concentrated on him, not saying a word. She checked his blood pressure and heartbeat, some bandages and the wound on his back, before she sat down in the single chair in his room.

"You were very lucky Mr Holmes. The bullet entered your body at the base of your neck, missed anything vital and exited just above your clavicle. While you lost a substantial amount of blood, there won't be any long term effects. You have some minor burns and contusions, but being thrown into the pool saved your life. You have a concussion, which combined with the blast trauma have kept you unconscious for eight days, but I'm sure that you will make a complete recovery."

"I don't care," Sherlock stated, "I want to know where John Watson is."

The pity, that quickly crossed her face should have told him everything, but still he didn't want to believe that. "I have already called your brother, he should be here soon." With that she got up and left the room.

"Where is John?" Sherlock yelled after her, but again received no answer. He turned his head back to the ceiling and started forming ideas of John coming in with Mycroft, or maybe he was just lying in another bed on this station. Everything was possible, John just couldn't be dead. He couldn't, because that meant that Sherlock had killed him and the detective didn't know if he could live with that knowledge.

Mycroft came in silently and sat down in the chair the doctor had abandoned earlier. He didn't say anything, waited until Sherlock had turned his head to face him, before whispering, "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

* * *

Sherlock crept out of the hospital the same night. Together with telling Sherlock what had happened, Mycroft had left him fresh clothing. A Mistake, if he actually believed that Sherlock would stay put.

His room was on the third floor of the Royal Hospital, but even with his injuries he had no problem scaling the facade. On the street, he called for a taxi and drove to the last place he wanted to go to and the only place he could go to.

At this hour of the night, the cemetery was closed, but Sherlock didn't care, just climbed the wall and landed on the other side. Mycroft had told him were the grave was, had told him that they had to bury John Watson while Sherlock was still unconscious.

His legs were heavy as they found their own way along the path, past several gravestones, before he found the only one that mattered. Fresh flowers were placed on the grave, probably from Mrs Hudson and Sherlock gently moved them aside, before collapsing against the marker.

The first tears had already escaped, when he had seen John's name carved into stone. Tears he hadn't allowed to show in front of his brother, but now he was alone and he cried openly.

The End


	2. Mistakes

**Mistakes**

For once he'd been the idiot. It had been a tiny, tiny little detail and he had missed it. He was the world's only consulting detective and observing the little details was his forte. So he should be the one paying for his mistakes, not his only friend.

Sherlock sighted and let the book fall on his legs. He really tried to distract himself, but it wasn't working. Not that it was easy trying to think of something different, when the result of his mistake was lying on a bed in front of him. For two days now, he'd sat in the uncomfortable hospital chair and waited for a sign of life. But John Watson remained stubbornly unconscious, unable to breathe on his own. And all that beeping and swooshing was getting on Sherlock's nerves, even though he knew that the noises meant that John was still alive. The doctors said to have patience, that no change also meant that John wasn't getting worse either, but Sherlock had no patience.

He'd asked one of the nurses yesterday if they couldn't at least turn down or, better yet, shut off the sound from the heart monitor, because he couldn't concentrate. They had nearly thrown him out after that and only thanks to Lestrade he had been allowed to stay.

For now he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and placed his head on his folded hands. "I really don't understand what the problem was," Sherlock stated. If he could talk to a skull, he could talk to an unresponsive John and the doctors had encouraged it, had babbled something about recognizing voices even though patients were in coma's.

"I just wanted a bit of quiet. If your subconsciousness can really hear what's going on around you, than that beeping will get on your nerves too. And that would be detrimental to your health." Satisfied at his observation, Sherlock leaned back in his chair and studied the changes in John's condition.

There still was the ventilator tube that send a chill through Sherlock every time he saw it, still too many wires and IV's and that second tube, which had been forced into John's chest to drain the fluid from it. The tube, that had dripped yellowish puss into a bag the last time he had looked thirty minutes ago and that now was filled with bright red blood. Clearly that was wrong and now he heard that there was something off about the heart monitor too. Why had he not recognised that sooner?

Sherlock cursed himself, as his eyes moved over to the monitor and saw the elevated heart rate. His heart was speeding up along with John's. Throwing himself out of the chair and repeatedly pressing the call button, he realized that the beeping of the heart monitor had again changed its cadence.

Nurses and doctors flooded the room, equipment was rolled in and Sherlock was pushed away. Let himself be pushed away, while his eyes remained glued to the heart monitor that didn't register any beats, but displayed a long flatline and let out a continuous wailing.

Sherlock felt his back hit the wall and watched, for the first time in his life truly helpless, as the doctors tried to shock John Watson's heart back into beating.

Again he had failed to see the signs and this time he probably had killed his only friend for good.

His mind raced over everything he had seen at the crime scene and he wondered how he could have missed the signs of a second person being there. But as much as he tried to concentrate, his thoughts always slipped back into the here and now, which was just fine, because he was barely able to duck the blow, that was aimed at his head.

It was supposed to be just one man, one man that had broken into the flat, not two. And there should not have been two had the second flat. He and John had evacuated the woman inside in time and then waited for the man to break into. But it had been two and the simple arrest turned into a fist fight. Still in his slightly ducked position, Sherlock punched his attacker in the side, just below the ribs and took a second to check on John.

He found him in the kitchen, wielding a pan and blocking punches with it, before knocking his attacker out with a heavy pan-blow to the head. Sherlock's eyes met John's and in the slight widening of them, Sherlock realised that he forgotten his own opponent. Stupid, but too late. The punch send him reeling backwards over a footstool and he landed in an undignified heap on the carpet. Then his side came into too close contact with the boot of his attacker and Sherlock could hear his ribs groan in protest. When the boot connected with his head, the word turned black. He did not really pass out, could still hear what was going on in the background and that was even worse, because he couldn't move and couldn't help.

Sherlock's attacker had been taller than himself, which meant that he was literally towering over John. He could hear John trying to defend himself, heard the punches falling. There was no dull clanking, which meant that the pan had been disposed off. There was a lot of grunting and groaning and while his vision slowly came back, he couldn't make out which belonged to who. Sherlock willed his body to recover faster and, with the world still fuzzy and half black, he rolled onto his stomach, felt the cracked ribs and pushed himself to his elbows.

He knew that John was a good fighter, the man had been trained by the army after all, but still, John had already fought one man off and the other was bigger and heavier. Just as he managed to push his knees under him, he heard John gasp in pain and the rattle of someone falling over, before someone, attacker, Sherlock's brain amended, ran off. Bad signs and Sherlock forced himself to his feet and shuffled, half bend over, to the open kitchen. He saw John sitting up against the cupboards and his normally overreactive brain just stopped.

Blood was welling up between John's fingers and was staining the tan jumper red. A blood stained knife was lying just a few feet away on the ground and even an idiot could figure out what had happened.  
"Sherlock," it was John's strained voice, that broke him out of his trance and he was on his knees and beside his friend a second later.

"Call an ambulance." It was an order, one Sherlock happily obliged. He only gave the operator the necessary information, before hanging up and turning back. Sweat had started to roll down the doctor's face and Sherlock could see the effort it took John to simply breathe.

"What can I do?" he asked. While he had a plethora of knowledge on all things obscure, he knew nearly nothing about emergency medicine. But he knew that the wheezing he was hearing was a bad sign.

"The knife hit a lung." John said, gulping for breath in between the sentences, "You need to... apply an occlusive dressing."

"A what?" Sherlock had no idea what John was talking about and the rapid deterioration of John's condition was slowly pushing him into a state of panic.

"See if you... can find some clingfilm... and tape." John replied and Sherlock started raiding the kitchen cupboards and drawers, hoping, that he did not to look like a frightened chicken, but obviously not managing.

"Sherlock... less haste, more speed. Don't panic now." How the doctor managed to stay so calm, Sherlock didn't know, but he obeyed the order and went on a bit more controlled about his search. With an euphoric "Ah!" he pulled out the clingfilm and seconds later had a roll of tape in his hands.

He placed both items on the ground before he kneeled down. "What now."  
"Cut away the sweater." Sherlock looked around and found the bloody knife first. He was not going to use that one, but before he could get up and start a new search, a hand on his wrist stopped him.

"Use it... don't have much time left." John's eyes were serious and Sherlock's hand just shook slightly when he picked up the knife. John had released his grip from the wound in his side and the bloody hand flopped lifelessly in his lap.  
Swiftly Sherlock cut through the wool and exposed the stab wound. Frothy blood bubbled from the wound whenever John took a breath. Panic was raising up again and Sherlock had to fight hard to push it back down again. He could not panic, that was something for civilians.

"Cut a square of clingfilm, big enough that it fits over the whole wound." John explained and watched with weary eyes, as Sherlock followed his instructions. "Tape it down over the wound, but leave one side open."

As he worked, Sherlock realized what John wanted him to do. He was creating a valve. Right now air was sucked into the chest cavity with every breath John took. The piece of plastic would seal the wound, but would let the air out again, whenever John exhaled.

Sherlock watched the plastic being sucked to the wound and pushed away again, for two or three breaths, before turning back to John. "What now?"

"We wait for the ambulance." Came the tired reply and lids slowly closed over glazed brown eyes.

"Hey, keep your eyes open," Sherlock said and gently shook John's shoulder. Without opening his eyes, John lifted one eyebrow, "Whatever the hell for?"

"Isn't that what they always say in your movies? When some has been injured. That they should keep their eyes open?"

"Sherlock. You're an idiot."

John's heart had started beating again, finally after the doctors had worked hard for ten minutes. After that he was physically pushed out of the room to allow some privacy, while the doctor searched for the reason of the bleeding.

Another ten minutes later, John's bed was pushed out and the doctor told him that they had to operate again. Sherlock didn't get any more information, not that he needed them, but it would have been nice.

So he had to wait, impatient as usual, until the doctor would come back and tell him whether his friend was still alive or not. He had spend a good deal of the two hours pacing up and down the corridor, thinking about the case and trying to figure out the clue he had missed.

Not that he came to a solution. But at least, with all the thinking he had done in the past days, he had been able to figure out who the second attacker was and Lestrade had actually managed to catch him.

The first assailant had been apprehended in the flat, John had knocked the man out good with the pan and the man hadn't been conscious for several hours. Sherlock had chuckled at that, he knew what he was giving John as a present this Christmas.

When the doctor approached Sherlock, after nearly two and a half hours of waiting, the detective already knew what she was going to tell him. "When can I see him?" had been the first question Sherlock had asked when the doctor had stopped beside him.

"He's being settled into his room as we speak. Unfortunately some of the stitches tore, which caused the internal bleeding. We managed to stop it, however this is a setback in his recovery."

"But he will recover?" Again he knew her answer simply by the way her facial muscles tightened.

"We'll have to wait and see. A nurse will let you know when John is settled in." With that the doctor left him standing alone in the corridor.

Sherlock sighted and dug in his pockets to find a nicotine patch, which he slapped on his forearm with more force than necessary. His fault, all of this was his fault and he wanted his friend back and talking to him. Mocking him for actually being worried and telling him that everything would be alright.

A nurse finally brought him back to John's ICU room and Sherlock had to force himself to step inside and sit down in the hospital chair.

John was even paler than before, if that was possible, and there were more IV's in him. Sherlock felt the knot of worry in his gut tighten and cursed himself for it. He was supposed to be a sociopath, if a high functioning one, but they had no feelings. He wasn't supposed to worry about the man lying in front of him.

Four more days. He had spend four more days hardly moving in the hospital chair. Only Lestrade had managed to pry him out once or twice for something to eat and a shower. It was getting ridiculous. He knew that John liked to sleep in, but his was too much.

The doctors were still telling him to be patient and that John had improved. That dreaded ventilator had been removed yesterday night and Sherlock had been relieved to see is friend breathing on his own. Also, there was more colour in John's face and the man had not developed a fever.

Sherlock sighted. It was getting boring too. Since John had moved in, Sherlock had come to appreciate that someone talked back to him. He was missing that. Leaning forward and onto his hands again, he watched John's face. Then a small smile spread over his lips, there was definitely movement of the eyes behind the closed lids. Movement meant consciousness and maybe if he prodded long enough, John would wake up.

He let his head rest on one hand and moved his right over to John's shoulder. The first nudge was careful and not very hard, but the only reply he got was a slight speeding up of the eye movement. The next nudge was a bit harder and accompanied with a "John?"

This actually got him a groan and Sherlock grinned in delight. Finally something was happening. The nudge became a shove and the finger a hand. "John, wake up." He tried to keep the glee from his voice, but wasn't quite sure if he managed it.

Now the head started rolling and John's face turned toward him, eyelids flickered and Sherlock shook harder.

"Mmh, no." John groaned and slowly opened his eyes. "Sh'lock?"

"Who else," Sherlock replied, now definitively sure that there was no glee in his voice, but instead a bored under tone.

"You're not s'pposed t' wake the patient up."

"You were already starting to wake up. I merely helped to fasten the process."

John nodded and his eyes slid shut again, "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" the detective answered, although he knew what the doctor was about to say, but too happy to hear him speak again to stop him.

"You're an idiot."

"Maybe so, but a lucky one." He replied and just now removed his hand from John's shoulder and leaned back in his chair. Knowing, that in a few days John would be back in Baker Street and everything would be right again.


	3. Bête noire

**Bête noire**

Blood was everywhere, staining his hands and shirtsleeves, creating an ever enlarging pool on the floor and worst of all it was gushing out of John's leg with every weakening beat of his heart.

Sherlock had his hands clapped tightly on the wound and had used his scarf as a tourniquet, but nothing was slowing down the bleeding.

The bullet had hit the femoral artery and without a miracle John would bleed to death in mere minutes.

Heart racing Sherlock looked at John, only to see that his friend's face had went from pale to grey and that his lips started to turn blue with the progressing shock.

"John. Don't give up now. Please." Sherlock pleaded, his own voice sounding foreign to his

ears.

John blinked slowly at him, unsaid words visible in his dimming eyes. 'Sorry` was one that Sherlock could read clearly and he felt the fear rise up in him.

"No. No. John you can't die." The detective said out loud, his mind adding 'not ever, not before me`.

The tremors that had shock John's frame slowed down and stopped. Blood didn't rush out in spurts, but instead in a steady trickle and Sherlock knew that it was not only because of a slowing heartbeat, but also because there wasn't enough blood left in John's body.

Sherlock let go of the wound and grabbed one of John's hands instead. The limb felt cold even through the hot blood on his own. His other hand cradled John's cheek.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered. His heart was clenching painfully in his chest, John was his first friend. He couldn't lose him.

He felt a weak pressure against his hand, that too soon became lax and with tears blurring his vision, Sherlock watched as the life faded from John's eyes.

"No!" it was his own voice that woke him up. His coat was tangled around his legs and sweat was running down his face, staining his shirt.

Throwing the coat off, Sherlock sat up and let his head fall into his hands. His breathing was slowly returning to normal, together with his heart beat.

A nightmare, he just had a nightmare. That had never happened to him before. Why now? And why was he so affected by it? Sherlock lifted his head to stare at his wet hands.

Killer Evan's bullet had only grazed John. The doctor was upstairs in his room sleeping. At least Sherlock hoped he was. The nightmare had made him unsure. Another new feeling, but he couldn't say right now if John was fine or not. And that brought another batch of new feelings Sherlock didn't want to face in the middle of the night.

So he did the only logical thing. Silently he climbed the seventeen steps up to John's bedroom. He lingered in front of the door for a while. There was no sound coming from within, but that was to expected.

Finally, after debating with himself for nearly a minute, Sherlock opened the door. The sight that greeted him let him sigh in relief. John was laying on his stomach, arms hidden underneath the pillow and blanket pulled up to his ears.

The cadence of his breathing changed slightly as he woke up. In the half dark Sherlock saw John's head turn and then the man probed himself up on his elbows, blinking tiredly at him.

"Sherlock? Something wrong?" It would not have been the first time that the detective had woken him in the middle of the night to leave for a crime scene.

"I, eh, I had a nightmare." That sounded childish, a grown man should be able to deal with nightmares on his own. He half expected John to laugh at him, instead the doctor rolled onto his side, made more room in the small bed and lifted the blanked.

Sherlock stood for a second longer in the door jamb before moving. Quietly he slipped into the bed, felt the warm blanket covering him and then John was pulling Sherlock on his side. His arm was carefully cradled by John's and his front was flush with John's back. It should feel uncomfortable, because he had never let other people get that close, was not too fond of touching, but somehow the warmth from John made him feel safe.

"It was just a scratch," John said, his voice slurred from sleep and probably already on his way back into dream land. "The limp will soon be psychosomatic again."

Sherlock snorted lightly into John's hair and felt the doctor's breathing deepen and evening out. Slowly he felt his own eyes fall shut and he let the rhythmic breathing and snug warmth pull him under. And this time he didn't dream.

End


	4. Nobody's Fault But Mine

Fourth story, third prompt. This one simply wanted some John H/C (exact wording was: John needs to be hurt damnit :))

Titel comes from a Led Zeppelin song, just like the whole title of the collection. What can I say, I'm a Rock'n Roller

* * *

Nobody's Fault But Mine

His footsteps fell heavy against the pavement, as he followed just a few feet behind Sherlock at full speed. They were chasing Martin Baxter, double murderer. Together with Lestrade and Donovan they had tried to confront Baxter in his apartment. But the man had thrown the door in their faces and had fled out of the window.

Sherlock was of coarse right behind him, having stopped the door from shutting with his foot. John followed closely, hearing Lestrade and Donovan running back the way they had come, as he climbed out of the window.

Baxter had led them through small alleys, past run down and abandoned buildings and further into uninhabited areas. His lungs were starting to burn at the exercise, but his gait was still even and he kept up with the longer legs of Sherlock. But then he had gotten a lot of practice in the past months chasing criminals through London. And someone had to keep up with Sherlock Holmes, because the man's sense of self-preservation was seriously malfunctioning.

Baxter's lead was closing and the man was aware of it. He ducked into another alley and ran up a flight of creaky stairs and into an abandoned house. Sherlock jumped the stairs two at a time, because half the steps were rotten or broken. They creaked dangerously as John ran them up, the weight of three grown men to much for the old wood.

The door had been barely hanging on it hinges when Baxter had stormed through, by the time John was through the piece of plywood fell down the stairs, breaking at least two steps on the way down.

The old house was dark, dust raising up with every footstep they made, and only weak rays of sun illuminated the rooms through the boarded up windows.

A cold shiver ran up John's spine and the hairs on the back of his neck raised, his instinct told him that something was up and it was not good. In one fluid motion he drew his old service gun from the back of his pants and, holding it tightly in both of his hands, he followed the crashing sounds into what could have been a living room once.

The sight that greeted him send his nerves down the drain. Baxter was standing in the back of the room, close to one of the boarded up windows. He had a gun in his hand, finger slowly pulling the trigger. Worst of all, the gun was aimed squarely at Sherlock.

The detective was standing stock still, staring at Baxter as if willing him to shot. John acted without thinking, not much thinking at least. He aimed at Baxter and jumped into Sherlock. So much for Sherlock having no sense of self-preservation, he wasn't a bit better.

The impact of the bullet send him crashing further into Sherlock and then he hit the ground. Of course his newly injured shoulder made first contact and the pain that flared up would have been enough to knock him out, but just a second after his shoulder hit the ground, his head too bounced off the ground and John slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

He felt the impact before the crack of the shot echoed against the walls. As he was falling a second shot fell and after he had crashed on the ground, he heard another body hitting the ground across the room. The fall had pushed the air out of his lungs and he had automatically closed his eyes shortly before his impact. An eerie silence had settled over the room as the echoes of the shots slowly faded away.

He opened his eyes, had to blink a few times because of the settling dust and found that his vision was obscured by a black jacket. Sherlock's eyes widened in shock and he scrambled to his knees only to see his friend lying unmoving on his side.

"Oh god no." Sherlock whispered and carefully rolled John on his back. "John. Can you hear me?"

Sherlock's pleading was rewarded with a groan and fluttering lids. Soon blue eyes opened and started into his, "Sherlock? You okay?"

"Yes, yes, you bloody idiot. I am okay, but you're not." Sherlock replied and fumbled the jacket aside, then pressed both hands over the small hole high up in John's chest.

John groaned in pain and buckled against the pressure for a second, before relaxing slightly. "What about Baxter?"

"I don't care. Lestrade can." His voice was shaking slightly, he could feel the warm blood well up between his fingers, staining his hands and making his hold slippery.

"He doesn't know where we are." John's statement was contradicted by heavy footfalls and a yell of , "Sherlock," in Lestrade's baritone.

"Living room." Sherlock yelled back and seconds later the Inspector stumbled through the door, closely followed by Donovan.

"Oh god." Lestrade said when he took in the scene in front of him. "Sally call an ambulance now," he ordered and stepped over the assorted rumble.

"Check on Baxter." It was John's weak voice that brought his gaze to the crumbled body in the back of the room.

"Give me your jacket first." Sherlock held out his hand expectantly, trying to ignore the fact that it dripped blood. His hands had done little to stop the bleeding and he could see the effects of the blood loss in John's rapidly paling face.

He felt the material in his hand and immediately pressed it back into John's shoulder. This time there was just a weak groan at the renewed pressure.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked, looked into glazed blue eyes and felt the panic rising in him.

"Gonna be okay." John's voice was slightly slurry and he needed to clench his teeth to stop them from rattling, but he was determined not to let them see how bad he was getting. He knew he was losing too much blood, could feel the shock worsening as the cold feeling settled in his limbs.

Donovan settled down opposite the detective and stared first at Sherlock's blood stained hands and Lestrade's coat, that was also turning red, before her eyes moved on to John's pale and sweaty face.

"Yeah, the other shoulder now too." John said, smirking through the pain. His lids were getting heavier and he felt more than tired by now. The signs of shocks were getting more serious and obvious now and he hoped that the ambulance would come soon.

"This is not funny," Sherlock said. His heart was beating against his chest as he felt the hot blood seeping through his fingers and dripping on the ground. It was too much and too fast and where was that bloody ambulance.

"Baxter is dead."Lestrade said and kneeled down beside Holmes, "How is he?"

"Slipping deeper into shock. Bullet probably it the subclavian." John answered and forced his eyes open again. The world around him was fuzzy and began to dim. He was not going to stay conscious much longer.

Keeping up eye contact with Sherlock, John lifted his hand, found Sherlock's forearm and held on as tight as he could. "'s gonna be okay." His eyes slid shut completely and refused to open again. The grip on Sherlock's arm became lax and Sherlock's voice was getting more muted until John didn't hear anything anymore and slipped into unconsciousness.

The second he saw John's eyes close, Sherlock began to panic. He laid trembling fingers on John's neck and felt his heart beat in his throat, when he didn't felt anything.

"I can't find his pulse. Lestrade I can't find his pulse." Wide scared eyes turned on the Inspector, who needed to take a few deep breaths to calm himself, before he replaced his fingers with Sherlock's. A sight of relief escaped him as he felt the weak throb. "He's still alive, Sherlock. His pulse is just weak. Look, he's still breathing."

Sherlock still didn't look convinced and watched John's chest closely for a few breaths, before turning back to Lestrade, "Then where is the ambulance? Where is the damn ambulance?" he was near shouting now. Scared for his friend, scared of own unknown feelings of panic.

"Sherlock!" Lestrades voice level matched the detectives, "Calm down. Keep the pressure up. The ambulance will be here soon."

The Inspector had never seen Sherlock so distressed and it was disturbing to see him this way. But seeing John lying in a puddle of his own blood must not be easy, hell he was affected and he was not sharing a flat with the doctor.

He too was slightly distressed by the situation. If the bullet really had hit the subclavian like John had said then they needed to hurry. And by the amount of blood that had already left the doctors body, Lestrade knew John was right.

Being a professional, even if Sherlock didn't acknowledged that most of the time, Lestrade was able to keep his calm. That didn't stop him from checking the pulse every few minutes and sighting in relief when he heard the siren and a minute later the steps of the medics.

It was a small fight to get Sherlock away from John. The detective was literally clinging to his friend and scared that he would bleed out the second he let go of the pressure. It didn't matter that the medics were there and had better equipment to deal with the bleeding than one ruined jacked and a pair of shaking hands.

In the end he had grabbed Sherlock from behind and had to physically pull the tall man away. "Sherlock, damnit calm down. The medics are here now. They'll take good care of John." Lestrade nearly yelled into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock calmed down when he saw John strapped to the stretcher. His heart was still beating frantically, but hearing the steady, if a bit slow, heartbeat from John coming from the monitor helped.

He wanted to drive with John in the ambulance, but the medics stopped him. Sherlock looked perplexed at the two men, when they told him he couldn't come with them.

"Why not?"

"We need the room to work, sir."

"But I'm thin. I don't need much room."

The medic looked helplessly at Lestrade, who was still standing a step behind Sherlock, ready to step in when needed. "C'mon I'll drive you. The longer you discuss this, the longer it takes until John is at the hospital." Which was absolutely the wrong thing to say, because that set Sherlock of again.

"Then go. Go. Go. Go" He pushed the medic back into the back of the ambulance, caught one last glance of John's face, half hidden behind an oxygen mask and slammed the door close.

Lestrade pulled him back a few paces as the ambulance took off with a wailing siren. Sherlock shook his arm to lose the Inspector's grip on his elbow and stalked into the alley, back to Baxter's apartment and Lestrade's car.

* * *

Doctor's, in Sherlock's eyes, were all hell's minions. Except for one and he didn't count right now.

After three hours of surgery all the doctor told him was that John was alive and expected to make a full recovery, barring any complications.

"Can I see him?"

"We're keeping him in ICU overnight for observation. Only family members are allowed in ICU."

"I'm his brother." Sherlock replied without hesitation.

The doctor eyes him suspiciously for a moment before saying, "I'm going to need ID for that."

Hell's mininons, all of them, Sherlock thought and let his shoulders fall. He just wanted to see John, needed to see with his own eyes that his friend was still alive.

"He's my partner. I brought him here." Sherlock pleaded and when had he been reduced to pleading? That should be below him, but by now his nerves are so strung out that he would do anything. And it was a good thing no one saw him, he would never be able to live that down.

"You're his fiancé? Why didn't you say so from the beginning?"

Sherlock was lucky that he was a quick and smart thinker or else he would have been stunned at the sudden turn of events.

"Yes, I'm his fiancé, but we have not told many people yet. You know, prejudice in our line of work." He put on an embarrassed expression and it worked.

With an understanding look on her face, the doctor nodded. "Come with me, I'll show you to his room."

Only when the doctor had turned around Sherlock started to smile. Sometimes it was too easy to manipulate people.

It was quiet in the ICU, something Sherlock was not prepared for. From the few tv-series he had watched on TV, or John had watched and Sherlock had commented, he thought that it would be much busier.

He also wasn't prepared to see John in the hospital bed. He was still too pale and an IV dripped new blood steadily in John's veins. But the beeping of the heart monitor was stronger, more regular than before and the oxygen mask had been replaced with a nasal canula.

"He's doing really well, considering the amount of blood he lost." The doctor reassured him, after seeing his slight hesitation.

Sherlock simply nodded and sat down in the chair beside John's bed. Staring at the slack face of his friend he started to wonder how he managed to get a friend like that. Someone who was willing took a bullet for him. Sherlock knew that he wasn't the easiest man to life with, knew from Donovan's and Anderson's comments that he was a freak that didn't deserve a friend like that. Even he had started to think like that and wondered why John hadn't turned tail long ago.

He would have to ask John that, as soon as the man was awake, because he had no experience in friendship. But then somewhere deep inside he knew that he would have done the exact same thing. Would give his live if it meant that John would live.

"A three patch problem, John." Sherlock whispered and leaned back in the chair, waited for John to wake up and smirked. He was already anticipating the face John was going to make when Sherlock told him that they were engaged.

End


	5. Dazed and Confused

Again shameless John hurt, but this time Sherlock has been injured too.

By the way, I'm not a physician and therefore I apologise in advance for any medical mistakes I made

* * *

**Dazed and Confused**

He woke to the sound of crashing, footsteps ran past him and voices yelled. There was a haze where his memories were and he had no idea where he was. He was lying in a bed with rough sheets and an uncomfortable mattress. His working hypothesis was confirmed when he heard one of the voices yelling out for 'Lorazepam`. Hospital then. With every waking, or half-waking moment, since his eyes were still closed, he felt more of his senses returning.

One of these unfortunately was pain and his head started to throb in time with a notorious beeping he heard. His right shoulder and arm were also throbbing dully and had been bound tightly against his chest. His whole body ached, but he knew that he was on some heavy pain killers and was slightly clad of it.

Slowly he opened his eyes, blinked against the harsh light and stared at the white ceiling. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see nurses and a doctor gathered around another bed, working frantically. Beside their voices he also heard the beeping of his own heart monitor and the more frantic beeping of however was in that other bed. Semi-private room, not ICU then, but still close enough to be monitored constantly.

What had happened? It was frustrating, his memories were blank and he could not remember what had brought him here. His mind was hazy and holding on to a clear thought was difficult and his brain was just slow.

One of the nurses must have realized, that he was awake and stepped over to his bed, drawing the privacy curtain behind her and hiding the movements from his view.

"Mr Holmes, it is good to see you awake. How are you?" the woman was still young, the smile was still real and the eyes weren't jaded by the surrounding misery, but then she was freshly engaged, maybe that kept her happy for the time being.

"On painkillers, so woozy. What happened?" Sherlock asked, his eyes following her movements as she checked the equipment.

"What is the last thing you remember?" she asked. The noise behind the curtain had died down as the medical emergency seemed to be over. Some nurses were already leaving the room. It was distracting Sherlock from thinking and his brain was unusual slow, but then he probably had suffered a concussion. Sherlock thought back, tried hard to remember and felt the headache increase, but at least the fog lifted. Lestrade had called them and John and he had taken a taxi… then blackness.

It was as if an icy fist had grabbed his heart and held on tight. John. Where was he? Sherlock tried to sit up, but the nurse held him back and the room had started to tilt dangerously.

"John. Where is John."

A look of sympathy crossed her face and Sherlock not only felt, but also heard his heart speed up. He should have realized that sooner, he was in a semi-private room, and John was always close to wherever he was. Stupid painkillers decreasing his brain activity to that of a normal idiot.

"He is still alive," the nurse said and laid a reassuring hand on his arm. Sherlock shook it off, he didn't want sympathy or reassurement, he wanted knowledge.

"You were in a car accident Mr Holmes. A driver ran a red light. You and Dr Watson were both injured badly. We had to remove your spleen and you have several more internal contusions. Your right humerus is broken, together with some of your ribs."

"What about John?" he asked impatient, he could feel his own injuries, didn't need to be told about them.

"Well, Dr Watson was sitting on the side of the impact. He sustained multiple broken ribs, which caused a flail chest. His right leg was broken rather badly and he too has some internal contusions. The worst injury, however, was to the head. He has a skull fracture and cerebral oedema." The nurse trailed off, she must have recognised the look of horror on Sherlock's face.

Slowly she pulled the privacy curtain back, to reveal John. Even with his limited vision, Sherlock could see that his friend was not looking good. A thick bandage covered John's head, what was visible of his face was grey, the rest was hidden by a ventilator tube. There were more IV's going into John, than Sherlock wanted to count, and he was sure that the hospital gown covered a tightly bandaged chest that rose and fell mechanically. The right leg was hanging in a metal traction and looked incredible painful.

"He just had a seizure." It was more of a statement than a question, the trashing noises, the frantic peeping it all made sense.

"Yes," the nurse replied, "Not uncommon in patients suffering from head injuries."

But to Sherlock, John was not just a patient, he was so much more. "Is he going to be alright?"

The nurse fiddled with his IV again and, judging by the warm sensation that was rising up in his veins, she just gave him more pain meds. Annoyance flared up in him, he didn't want any pain meds, they made him drowsy and he needed to be awake, needed to know about John's full condition. He protested weakly, tried to rip out the IV, but he could not move his right arm and his eyes were already falling shut against his will. Sherlock forced his eyes open again, "Will he be alright?" was a slurred mess, but he was sure that the nurse had understood him, because she had glanced uncertainly over to John.

"We have to wait and see. But you have to concentrate on yourself now."

Sherlock wanted to tell her that he had done that far too long, that everything in his world had shifted to not just him, the moment John had limped into his life, but his eyelids remained stubbornly closed and he slipped into the dark.

* * *

The shrieking of metal grinding onto metal echoed in his ears, as he woke up for a second time. His eyes and head rolled to his right, over to John to check on him. Nothing seemed to have changed since his forced nap.

"Sherlock, good to see you awake."

Sherlock turned his head to face the other direction and he had to close his eyes for a second as the room continued to move. He had not even realised that his brother was in the room. Stupid painkillers, not only were they taking his ability to think, but also to observe.

"How are you?" Sherlock didn't bother to answer, Mycroft could observe his condition himself. Instead he compared the light coming in from the windows to how it had been the first time he woke up. Considering the shadows he must have slept for at least four hours. And figuring that out had taken too long.

"They will cut the painkillers back soon." Mycroft told Sherlock and received a glare in return.

"How long since the accident?"

"Three days. You had us worried."

"What about John?"

"He too of course."

"That was not what I meant."

Mycroft sighted softly and where it not for the short silence between the two, Sherlock would not have heard it. Soft rustling of the sheets, his head immediately swivelled back to John and he could see John's arm shaking. The shaking increased in intensity and soon enveloped the whole body, as the alarms started to ring loudly. Sherlock watched John's body trash violently in the bed and felt his own heartbeat increase at the irregular pattern on John's monitor. A doctor and several nursed stormed into the room and swarmed the bed, obscuring Sherlock's view. And this time he knew what was going on, which made the experience even more scary.

He observed the nurses carrying out orders and removing anything that John could accidentally hit. But something was different this time and it drove Sherlock mad, because he couldn't put his finger on it. Another alarm went off, added to the cacophony of voices and shrieking monitors, but still Sherlock heard the doctor curse, "Shit, he's biting the tube."

One of the nurses ran out, only to return seconds later with a plastic packaging in her hand.

Slowly the tremors stopped and John fell back against the mattress, absolutely still. Even the mechanical chest movement had stopped and only now Sherlock's slow brain caught up.

The doctor removed the ventilator tube and still from his position Sherlock was able to see that John had bitten clear through the plastic.

Just as the doctor placed the new tube down John's throat, the frantic, irregular peeping of the heart monitor turned into a continuous wail and Sherlock could have sworn that his heart stopped together with John's.

"I need the crash cart. Now!" the doctor yelled as he started to manually pump John's chest and a nurse connected an ambu bag to the breathing tube. A second nurse had pulled an inconspicuous looking cart from the corner closer and was now fiddling with the controls. She held the paddles out for the doctor to take and pulled down the hospital gown once they were gone.

The charge didn't lift John of the mattress like Sherlock had seen it in the bad TV-shows, it merely made him flinch.

"No change," one of the nurses said and Sherlock thought that that was bloody obvious. He watched as a second shock was administered, felt his own stomach fill with dread and his fear rising as the third shock also didn't work and he held his breath when the doctor stared desperately at the heart monitor after a fourth round.

Irregular spikes had appeared on the monitor and gave Sherlock hope that this time it had worked. But his hope was crushed when the spikes evened out again. He heard the doctor whisper, "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," under his breath and unconsciously followed his example, as new medication was pushed into John's IV and a fifth shock was send through his body.

The breath came out in shuddering relief, when the spikes on the heart monitor slipped back into a regular, if slightly slow rhythm. Sherlock found himself thanking a god he didn't believe in and only now felt Mycroft's tight grip on his left forearm. The knowledge that Mycroft was nearly as rattled by this experience as he was, was a surprise, but also reassuring.

Sherlock continued to watch the nurses fiddle with equipment and, to his shock, started to roll the bed out of the room. "What are they doing?" he turned to Mycroft, "Where are they taking him."

"We need to do some further tests," the voice of the doctor answered. "I'm Dr Peterson. And it is good to see you awake Mr Holmes."

"What's going to happen now?"

"We have to monitor you for a few more days yet, but I'm confident that you will be discharged next week." The doctor wanted to say more, but Sherlock interrupted him, "Not with me. John."

Dr Peterson sighted, "As I've said, we are going to do some further tests, but I'm sure that we have to operate to relieve the pressure on his brain."

At this news Sherlock actually was speechless and his own sluggish thoughts came to a stop, "How... how are his chances."

"His chances of surviving are good, he has made it so far and I don't believe he's going to die. There is however the possibility of brain damage, but we won't know for sure until he wakes up." The doctor noticed how the news upset his patient, "A nurse will give you a sedative."

Sherlock wanted to protest, he didn't want to sleep again, afraid that he could miss anything, but Mycroft stopped him, "Take it Sherlock, you need rest to get well. The doctor is going to require your help when he wakes up, and that will be easier for you, when you are more healthy." The tone alone was enough to let Sherlock comply.

His big brother really had been worried and as always his logic couldn't be flared. John was going to need him to recover and he was prepared to do anything. Just like John would do the same for him. Besides if he played nice with the doctors now, he hopefully could stay longer. So with a sigh Sherlock nodded.

"Thank you." Mycroft whispered. They waited in silence for the nurse to come in and Sherlock watched with weary eyes as she slipped the needle into his IV and he felt the drug spread through his blood system. This time he didn't fight the pull into darkness and hoped that the world would look different when he woke up again.

* * *

The third time was the charm, at least the common people said so and they seemed to be right. When Sherlock opened his eyes, it looked to be morning again and he was alone. Except for the other occupied bed in his room. There was no chance that Sherlock could see, John was lying still, breathing was forced and the leg hung in the traction. But at least he was still there.

Since no one was in the room Sherlock thought that it would not be a problem if he got up. It took him more effort than he liked and the room tilted dangerously whenever he moved his head to fast, but soon he was sitting on the edge of the bed and his bare feet were touching the cold ground. He held tightly onto his IV stand and used it as a crutch to cross the few feet to the next bed.

A shiver ran up his spine, as he made his first steps and he felt the dreadful hospital gown flop open at the back. Sherlock had no arm free to close the garment, but he didn't really cared anyway. He would flash the whole hospital if he could see John. His body was aching and throbbing dully by the time he had made it over to the bed and he was slightly out of breath. With an exhausted sigh, he sat down on the bed, careful of John's arm and the IV's hanging around.

Again mindful of not only John's but also his IV, Sherlock took John's hand in his own. It was merciful warm and not cold as expected. Warm was good, because warmth meant life. He sat in contemplative silence for a while, just watching. And finally he was rewarded with fluttering eyelids and then a thin slid of blue was visible.

Sherlock smiled at the sight and carefully leaned forward, "John, can you hear me?" He knew of course that John could not answer, because of tube still down his throat, but he also knew that John would find a way to tell him that he was fine, he always did. So he waited nervously for any reaction, the doctors words about possible brain damage still ringing in his head when he felt it. The movement of John's fingers was slight and the grip was weak. Sherlock's smile widened and he tightened their hold. John was fine, would be fine. That grip, no matter how soft, was all Sherlock needed to know this. They still had a long way to go, but they would go it together. And that was all that counted.

The End


	6. The Boy, Who Cried Wolf

A/N: Prompt was: Sherlock texts John all the time, making it sound really important when it's just because he's bored. Something bad happens to John on his way to Baker Street to answer one of Sherlock's text.

So it's minor John hurt and panicky!Sherlock

* * *

**The Boy, Who Cried Wolf**

John was late. He had texted him twenty minutes earlier, a text that clearly stated that it was an emergency and that John needed to come immediately. As far as Sherlock knew, and Sherlock always knows, John had been at St. Barts. It should not take him more than twenty minutes to come back home.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and threw himself in his armchair, he had wrote that it was important. Maybe he should have added dangerous, too, but then, John had always come right away when Sherlock had texted him. John would not not come, this was against the doctors nature.

The door bell to their flat rang, but Sherlock didn't move from his sprawled out position of the armchair. John had a key and anything not John-related at the moment was boring. Downstairs Mr. Hudson was opening the door and he heard her speaking to Lestrade. He couldn't make out what was being said, just heard the mumbling voices and then seconds later Lestrade's heavy tread on the stairs.

Interestingly his steps where slower than usual, the Inspector probably hadn't had enough sleep, which meant that he had mulled over a case Sherlock mused and braced himself for a nice, half-way complicated case. But the second Sherlock saw Lestrade's face his own brain yelled wrong at him.

The Inspector stood uncertain in their doorway, a sympathic look on his face, slight fear in his eyes. Instantly he is up, takes a step toward Lestrade, before muttering, "John." It was the only logical conclusion, Lestrade looked as if he came bearing bad news. Since Sherlock was only close to two persons and if something would have happened to Mycroft, it wouldn't have been Lestrade who would inform him.

The Inspector nodded solemnly, "There was an accident." Sherlock didn't hear more. A white noise rushed through his ears and his vision turned dark. He could fell his heart speeding up, throbbing painfully against his chest. No, no, no. John couldn't be dead, just couldn't be. The man had survived Afghanistan, had survived the explosion had the pool, he could not die in a measly accident.

Sherlock felt Lestrade's hands on his shoulders leading him to the coach and forcing him down. But it was not helping any, because Sherlock knew that it was his fault. He had texted John, had wrote that it was important, when it really wasn't. Had he not texted than John would not have been on the street, would not have been on the street and in the accident. Oh my god. He had killed John.

The slap took him by surprise. Suddenly his cheek was stinging and his head was forcefully moving to the side. Slowly the world came back into focus again and the rushing in his ears turned into Lestrade's exasperated voice, "Sherlock, damnit listen to me."

Sherlock shortly shook his head, got rid of the last of the ringing and took a deep breath again, only now realizing that he must have started to hyperventilate. Sociopath, he told himself, you're a sociopath. They don't have any emotions. It took him another minute to calm down completely, to ignore the incessant little voice in his head, that he had killed his only friend and would have to face the world alone again.

Finally his gaze settled back on Lestrade. The Inspector was kneeling in front of him and had placed his hands on Sherlock's knees. "Can I see him." Sherlock asked: in what he hoped was a calm voice, but was really a trembling stutter.

"Of course you can see him you bloody idiot. He even asked for you."

For the second time in just thirty minutes his mind came to a complete stop, "He's not dead?"

"No, he's injured, but he will be fine." Lestrade reassured him and Sherlock jumped up from the coach and ran to the door.

"Then what are we waiting for? I need to see him." With that the detective was running down the stairs, leaving Lestrade still kneeling in front of the coach.

"Damn idiot isn't even wearing shoes." He muttered to himself and wondered when the usually so smart detective would observe this little tidbit.

* * *

Lestrade was never going to let him live this one down. Running out of the house without shoes, simply because he was worried. But then, he couldn't care less. John was going to be alright and that was the most important thing.

With his long legs, he quickly walked along the white corridor of the hospital, passing doors left and right until he finally found the one he was looking for. Sherlock didn't bother with knocking and just stepped into the room. John was lying in the bed closest to the door and the second Sherlock entered, he flinched and unconsciously reached for the bedside table for an imaginary gun.

"No need to shoot me just yet." Sherlock said and watched as John relaxed. There was a bandage taped to his forehead and part of his hair had been shaved off to clean and stitch the wound underneath. Deep bruises had spread across his forehead and down to the cheek, his right leg was in a cast and from the way he gingerly moved, Sherlock guessed that he had at least a couple of broken ribs. "They are keeping you for observation."

"Yes," John sighted, "Concussion and checking that I don't bleed internally, at least for 24 hours."

The man in the other bed stared at them venomously and turned up the volume on the TV. Sherlock grimaced and pulled the privacy curtain close. "Nice bed-neighbours," he commented and pulled a chair from the wall closer to John's bed.

John shrugged and immediately regretted that decision, as the pain of his broken ribs burned though his body."Better than a flatmate that texts for emergencies, when there aren't any."

Sherlock had the decency to look guilty, if only for a second, before his face fell back into the nonchalant mask he usually wore. But John had seen it and that was all that counted.

"Well, I was bored and who would have thought that you'd run into a car in your haste."

John needed to suppress a smile at this statement, while the wording sounded careless, he could hear the worry in the voice.

"To be fair, the car was running into me and not the other way around."

"Potayto, Potato. This just means, that I will have to solve my next case alone," Sherlock said and stood up.

"You have a new case?"

"Yes, seems like a really bad driver ran over a pedestrian and absconded from the scene. I'll doubt the police will be able to solve it on their own."

This time John did smile, "You'll keep me informed of your progress?"

"Of course, I have found you to be a better listener than my skull." Sherlock said and stepped over to the door, "Call me when they will release you, I'll be there."

"Will do."

With that Sherlock walked out the door. As he was marching along the corridor, he wondered, where, in their cluttered living room, John's old cane was. The doctor would probably appreciate it, he could use an old friend in his current situation.

The End


	7. Happy Birthday John

This is a bit of fluff for once and based on the prompt: It's John's birthday, Sherlock attempts cake baking, hilarity ensues.

* * *

**Happy Birthday John**

He was a chemist. He could perform difficult experiments without any problems and solve the most difficult puzzles in his head. Why then could he not bake a simple cake?

The kitchen looked as if a flour bomb had exploded all over it, there was cake batter splattered all over the working space (and how could he have known that that stuff would spray everywhere, when he placed the already turned on mixer into the mix) and the blackened rest of his cake was refusing to slip out of the baking form. The black smoke that was still raising from the oven, probably wasn't a good sign either.

Sherlock sighted and drew his hand through his hair. He just wanted to celebrate John's birthday and he knew that his doctor liked chocolate cake, so he wanted to surprise John with one. And now the kitchen looked worse than before and the cake looked awful.

Dejected Sherlock slumped into the chair and started at his block of charcoal. It was already late afternoon and John would be coming back home from work soon, there was no time to start anew. Somehow Sherlock also doubted that his second attempt would prove any more successful than his first.

There where footsteps on the stairs and Sherlock sighted in despair. Maybe John appreciated the effort and they would simply go out to eat, leave the mess to cool down and throw it all out later. It took him a moment to realize that it was not John's tread, but instead Mrs. Hudson, who made her way up the stairs.

Seconds later the door to their kitchen opened slowly and their landlady came inside, her back first. In her hands she held a big plate with a homemade chocolate cake on it. She tuuted at the chaos Sherlock had produced in his efforts (at least this time there weren't any chemical spills eating holes into the floor) and set the cake on the table.

"There you go dear," she said and Sherlock starred at the cake and the colourful letters proclaiming 'Happy Birthday John`. "But only this time, I'm not your housekeeper and air the room before John comes home."

Sherlock smiled first at the cake then at Mrs. Hudson, before engulfing her in a hug and placing a kiss on her cheek. "Thank you. John and I both appreciate this." And this was true, they just didn't told her that often enough.

"You're welcome," Mrs. Hudson said and taking Sherlock's ruined attempted at baking, slipped out of the apartment and down the stairs.

Sherlock stepped over their (his) assorted rumble and opened the window wide, just in time to see John opening the front door and disappearing inside.

Then John was on the stairs and in their living room, wrinkling his nose at the smell. "You didn't set fire to the curtains again did you?"

Sherlock shook his head, curls and cake batter flying around, "No. I made you a cake."

Disbelief spread over John's features, "You made me a cake?"

A bright smile spread over Sherlock's features and in three longs steps he was beside John and pulled the doctor by the arm into the kitchen. He presented the cake with a flourish gesture, "There."

John looked at the cake in astonishment, read the words and felt a smile spreading his lips. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Sherlock said, pulled John further into the room and settled him on chair. He pulled a knife from one of the drawers and held it out for John to take. "Happy Birthday John."

The End


	8. Emergency Tracheotomy

Just a little prompt fill, with Dr. Watson (and hopeflully at least a bit BAMF :))

* * *

**Emergency Tracheotomy**

"Your men are getting a bitter over enthusiastic." John growled as he kneeled down beside the downed suspect. The robber turned murdered was lying on the ground, clutched his throat and breathed in guttural sounding puffs. The police officer, that had brought him down, was standing a few feet beside them, looking mildly pleased with himself. Sherlock, Lestrade and Sally stood gathered around the kneeling John, watching him examine the robber.

"He's got a crushed trachea," John said, raising his voice slightly over the stertorously breathing of his new patient. "I need a knife, a pen and something to disinfect." John ordered. The normally soft spoken man had disappeared, replaced by the soldier and doctor.

He knew the man in front of him was about to die, the chest was barely lifting and his lips were turning blue. There was no time to waste, so he held his hand out expectantly.

It was Sherlock, who provided the knife and Lestrade gave him a ballpoint pen. John laid the knife down on the chest of his patient and set about dismantling the pen, throwing anything away, except the plastic body.

"Anything to disinfect?" John asked, keeping one eye on the patient, whose breathing was getting weaker with every second.

Sally stepped forward, slightly distressed to see the doctor so commanding, she would have never guessed that the shorter man had had it in him. "I have a lighter."

"That'll do." John said and took her zippo. The lighter was turned on and he held the knife over the flame until it glowed slightly. He repeated the process on the body of the pen, but this time more careful, aware that the plastic could melt and cause more damage than help.

John leant forward, padded his patients shoulder and apologized, "Sorry mate, that's gonna hurt." He used his fingers to find small indentation between the Cricoid cartilage and the Adam's apple. Placing the knife beside his finger, he made a small cut and inserted his finger in the newly made cut to keep it open and then guided the pen inside.

Sherlock was bend forward, looking over his shoulder and cataloguing every move John made, but could still see the reactions of Donovan and Lestrade. While Donovan still had a scared expression on her face, Lestrade was clearly impressed by John's quick thinking. This in turn swelled Sherlock's chest. He was proud of his doctor and seeing that others were amazed, made him fell even more giddy. It was a strange feeling, that for once it wasn't his own knowledge and the following admiration that made him fell wanted, but that of his friend.

The robber struggled slightly against the pain, but was otherwise too weak to do anything else. The second he realized, that he could breathe again, the man's features relaxed and John padded the man's shoulder and still in his crouched position looked up at the men assembled around him, "One of you called an ambulance, right?"

The End


	9. Shine A Light

Another story inspired by another prompt. I'm a bit nervous about this one, can't say exactly why, but something feels slightly off. Still posting it though, so please be nice :)

* * *

**Shine A Light**

The building was on fire. Bright, orange flames that lit up the sky and rapidly turned the wooden shack to ashes. Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, staring at the flames and tried to breathe. But he couldn't, the air kept getting stuck in his throat, because John was in there. And he was in there because of Sherlock.

It had been an easy case, up until the point where John had gone missing. Sherlock had started the frantic search for his friend, he knew the murderer, therefore knew who had kidnapped John and he had led the police to the wooden shack in the outskirts of London. They had been just in time to see the shack explode.

Sherlock felt his knees grow weak and then Lestrade was there, leading him away.

"Sherlock breathe," Lestrade said, his voice calm and low, but Sherlock couldn't breathe. Because he was sure that when he started, it would only stutter and turn into heaving gasps, would reveal his true emotions and he couldn't show them. Not here, not in front of half the police force.

"We're alone." Lestrade whispered again. And only now did Sherlock realize that he had been led to the far end of the road. Orange was mixing with blue farther back and black figures were moving in front of the colourful spectacle, but were unable to see Lestrade and Sherlock clearly.

The warm hand, that had rested on his shoulder pulled him closer, drew him into a tight embrace and suddenly the endless day came crashing down on Sherlock. He felt the exhaustion sweep through him, followed closely by a deep wave of sadness. John was dead and it was his fault. Feelings overwhelmed him and he didn't know how to handle them, because it had always been John, who had been there for him, telling him what to do. And he wasn't here now, would never be here again.

Sherlock was grateful that Lestrade didn't offer any platitudes, as he buried his face in the Inspectors shoulder and hoped to block out the rest of the world. Only now, he started to breathe again, felt the air stutter through him and tears leaking through his tightly closed lids. John had been his moral compass, who would lead him now?

Lestrade stiffened beneath him and Sherlock hick-upped silently against his shoulder, fearing that it was an officer, or worse Donovan, approaching, that had caused this reaction. He needed to pull himself together, couldn't let them see him.

"Sherlock," this time Lestrade voice sounded elated, but also disbelieving and for once Sherlock did not understand what that meant. "Sherlock look." And the Inspector pushed him away, forced him to turn around and for the second time Sherlock froze.

John stood there just a few feet away, covered in soot from head to toe, blood running sluggishly down the side of his face, but alive. Merciful alive.

In three quick steps Sherlock was in front of him, staring into blue eyes and not believing what he saw. Slowly, afraid that John would vanish, if he moved too fast, Sherlock lifted his hands and placed them on John's cheeks. He rubbed his thumb over John's cheekbone, wiping away some of the black soot.

All the time John didn't move, didn't say a word, just led Sherlock touch him, reassure himself that he was alive.

"You're not dead." Sherlock said, shaky and with tears still running down his cheeks.

"No," John replied, lifted his own hand and swiped one trailing tear away. "I'm sorry."

And then he was pulled into a crushing embrace, felt Sherlock's arms cradle him close and he returned the embrace.

Lestrade sighted in relief, when he saw John. If the doctor would have died, Sherlock would have been devastated. Lost in a world of loneliness, that he had carved before the doctor had stepped into his life. In the past six months the two had known each other, they had changed each other's life for the better. And now, seeing them hug, Lestrade felt a silly smile spread over his features. They would be alright and the rest of the world could wait for a minute.

The End


	10. Sniffles

A/N: Because Yogurt (a nice reviewer :)) asked for a sick Sherlock and since I have a nasty cold myself I wrote a little fluff piece. Hope it is not to bad and roughly what Yogurt had in mind.

* * *

**Sniffles**

His own stupid body was betraying him. He had woken up with a pounding headache, a stuffed nose and a sore throat. By the time he had forced himself out of his bedroom and onto the coach his ears had started to ache too.

Completely miserable, he sprawled on the sofa and waited for John to wake up. The man was a doctor after all, he would know what to do. By the time John came down the stairs, the tickle in his throat had became a cough and a violent sneeze ripped though him. With a disgusted sound, Sherlock wiped his nose on the sleeve of his dressing gown.

A packet of handkerchiefs suddenly appeared in his vision, "Please use these, far more hygienic than your sleeve."

Sherlock crumbled, but took the offered package anyway. And really, how much stuff could be up there? He needed to perform an experiment on the capacities of the nose as soon as he could think clearly again. John had thrown the old head out months ago, so there was space in the fridge for a new one. The tissue was discarded on the floor and John was in front of him with a basket and his medical kit.

"Used handkerchiefs go in here." He said and wriggled the basket, before putting it on the ground beside the sofa. "Now let's see what's wrong with you" John said and thoroughly examined Sherlock. The detective in turn thought that John could do with a better bedside manner and wondered how he managed to keep his job at the surgery. Which led to Sherlock moaning and growling through the examination.

"Looks like you've got a mild middle ear infection." John said and started rooting through his bag, pulling out a small green bottle. "This'll help against the pain and the infection. Lay down."

There wasn't much, that Sherlock could do against John, when the doctor ordered him around in this kind of voice, so he complied. He was trembling slightly and John placed the warm blanket over him, before pushing curly hair from the ear. "It's cold," he warned, but that wasn't warning enough. The stuff wasn't just cold it was freezing and the feeling, when the drop slowly rolled down into his inner ear, was so uncomfortable, that a shiver ran up his spine and he would have jumped up in alarm, had John not held him down.

"What the hell is this?"

"Auralgan, it helps with the pain and the swelling." John explained and continued to press Sherlock down, "You need to lie still for a few minutes to make sure the drop is sufficiently absorbed."

"Boring."

"I'll turn on the telly and get you a tea, when you're done."

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligibly and stared at John, slightly annoyed. The doctor just chuckled and turned to leave. Another sneeze broke free, before Sherlock had the chance to lift his hand, not that he would have, and hit John right in the back. Sherlock suppressed the smile and hoped that John would get sick too, he had certainly earned it.

The whole day past in a bored daze. He was regularly dosed by John with Tylenol and cough syrup, but luckily the disgusting ear drops stayed in place. The program on the telly was as dreadful as usual, but now the added headache and the sandpaper feeling of his eyes made it even more irritating. So, when he snapped at John more often than usual, it was totally not his fault. The flu and the telly had made him do it.

In the evening John approached him again with that small green bottle and Sherlock did the only logical thing: he clasped his hands over his ears and told him no.

"If you led it fester, you could go deaf." John told him. The bastard even had the guts to smile. "You don't want to go deaf, do you?"

"I don't care, this stuff is vile."

"You can have a lollipop, if you're brave." John said, still smirking, because that usually worked with his younger patients and damn if Sherlock hadn't acted like a child the whole day. Wanted to have tea, moaned at the pain, growled at the TV and threw his used handkerchiefs on the ground. And John would not pick them up.

Sherlock needed to think on that offer. He always liked that particular kind of candy. It had helped him immensely, when he had stopped smoking and he hadn't had one in a while.

"Is it red?" he asked, not yet freeing his ears, but at least reducing the pressure.

"Is there any other kind?"

Reluctantly he removed his hands from his ears and laid down, tensing already in anticipation of the cool liquid sliding down is auditory canal. As expected a shiver ragged up his spine at the odd sensation and again it was John's hand on his shoulder that kept him down.

"Now that wasn't that bad." A small tap on his shoulder left Sherlock alone again, if only for a while, because John returned with the promised lollipop. And no, there was no glee in his eyes, when he unwrapped it and placed it in his mouth.

By the time he had finished and had thrown the stick on the floor, right next to a discarded handkerchief, John had pushed cotton into his ear and wanted him to go to bed.

"But it's still light out."

"You're sick and your body needs all the rest it can get."

"Rest is dull."

But John in his doctor-mode was more stubborn, than even Sherlock on a bad day and seconds later he was hauled up. The room swam for a moment, the sudden shift in position made him dizzy, but John's arm was secure around his waist. The few feet to his bedroom exhausted him already and he welcomed the bed and cursed his legs.

He detested being sick. The blanket was pulled securely around him and Sherlock watched curiously as John moved around the room, pulled out a book and moved a chair closer to the bed. Only when John had sat down and had placed his feet on the mattress, crossed at the ankles, did Sherlock ask what he was doing.

A faint plush spread over John's features, "Well, my mother used to read to me, when I was sick, thought I'd do the same for you."

Sherlock turned on his side, pulled his legs close and stared at John, no one had ever read to him, when he was kid. His parents had left him in the care of the rather distant Nanny, whenever he was sick and he therefore Sherlock had never admitted to being sick in the first place. This was a nice change of things and even though he was still shivering with a slight fever, his heart warmed at John's offer. "I don't mind." Sherlock said and pulled the blanket closer. With John's voice calm and steady in the background, he drifted to sleep.

The End


	11. All Down the Line

A/N: Wow, already the 11th chapter and I must say, that I'm slightly proud of myself :). Again this was inspired by a prompt. Beta and Brit-pick had been done by chocolateteacup over on livejournal.

Enjoy reading :)

* * *

**All Down the Line**

Part 1 – Lestrade

When Sherlock and John turned up at the crime scene, even Lestrade was able to see that something was wrong. Sherlock was acting as hyperactive as usual when on a case, but John was more silent than normal and stayed even further in the background. While Sherlock practically bounced around in the flat's living room, John stayed close to the main entrance and tried to sink into the wall.

Lestrade had known John now for a few months and the two had been out for a pint or two, whenever Sherlock had been too infuriating. Therefore he considered the doctor as a friend and it was his duty to check on him. Because, if there was one thing he had learned, it was that John tended to be more attentive to his patients' health, than his own , and right now he looked sick. Even underneath the slowly fading tan, Lestrade was able to see that John was pale, and despite the warm day, he had closed his jacket and had crossed his arms over his chest protectively. Stepping closer, he was also able to see sweat on the other man's forehead.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked, silently, so as not to distract Sherlock in his thinking process.

John managed to glare at him, even through glazed eyes , and Lestrade admitted that he was impressed by that ability.

"I'm fine," the snarled reply followed the glare. Lestrade did not believe that. For once he was sure, that the doctor would tell everyone that he was fine, even if he actually was dying and the man was generally a gentle soul. Snarling was not in his repertoire.

For the sake of peace, Lestrade backed off for the moment. The only man who would be able to talk any sense into the doctor was Sherlock Holmes. As soon as the Inspector had the chance to, he would make sure to tell him that John was about to keel over.

A violent coughing fit brought Lestrade's attention back to John. The other man was bent nearly in half, one hand pressed against his mouth to stifle the coughs, the other braced against the wall to keep him standing.

"Be quiet or be outside," Sherlock snapped from across the room, not even looking up from examining the rug. Lestrade shot an irritated look at the back of his head, before turning back to John. Placing a reassuring hand on John's back, Lestrade could feel the shivers raging through him.

With the help of the wall, John pushed himself upright again and shook off Lestrade's hand. "I'm good, don't worry," John said, his voice betraying the statement.

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked. The tremors had worried Lestrade and even though John had stopped coughing, there was still a certain roughness to his breathing.

Another glare was shot in his direction and for a second Lestrade was sure that John and Sherlock deserved each other. Both had the same stubborn streak.

In that case, Lestrade needed to inform Sherlock of the current situation, because only a mule could force another mule into moving. At least this was his experience, when dealing with John and Sherlock. While he made his way over to Sherlock, Lestrade made eye contact with Donovan and nodded at John, indicating that she should keep an eye on him. She nodded back and stepped closer to John.

Sherlock was currently bent over the window sill on the opposite site of the flat. When he realized that Lestrade was approaching, he lifted his arm and halted Lestrade's movement. The detective knew that if he interrupted Sherlock's work before the man was finished, an endless rant on the incompetence of the police would follow. Lestrade was not in the mood for it right now, not that he ever was, and waited patiently until Sherlock had finished with the sill and had turned around.

"You're searching for a man, not taller than 5'11'' and slim, most definitely agile," Sherlock started, and this time it was Lestrade that lifted his hand to stop the other man. He knew that Sherlock needed to be stopped, before he had really started, "This can wait."

A perplexed expression crossed Sherlock's face, "Why?"

"You should, maybe, take your doctor home and into bed."

"John must have told you already, that we are not in a relationship. Why then should I take him to bed?"

"Because he's sick." Lestrade said in a matter-of-fact tone. Sherlock tilted his upper body slightly to the side and looked over Lestrade's shoulder. Seeing John leaning against the wall, coughs smothered by his elbow and Donovan hovering close by, made him furrow his brow. John had been fine, when they had left the flat, so it couldn't be anything bad.

"He is a doctor and should know when he is unwell."

"The doctor is also more concerned about other people's health, than his own."

Worry flashed up in Sherlock's eyes, while his gaze was still fixed over Lestrade's shoulder. The Inspector was just turning around, when he heard Donovan yelp in surprise. Sherlock pushed past him and a second later Lestrade saw the reason for his worry and Donovan's outburst.

John had collapsed onto his knees. The only thing that had stopped him from crashing face first to the floor was Donovan. She was holding him up awkwardly, her knees half bent under John's weight and her arms around his back. John was lying limp in the hold and it was clear that she would not be able to hold up this position for long.

Gently, Sherlock pried John from her arms and laid him on the floor. Seeing that he was shivering violently, Sherlock used his coat as a blanket. Lestrade watched, in mild surprise, as Sherlock pushed sweat drenched hair from John's forehead. With his hand still in place, Sherlock's head whipped around and panicked eyes met Lestrade's. That look of fear was all it took for him to call for an ambulance.

"He's hot," Sherlock said, when Lestrade kneeled beside him. The Inspector placed his hand on John's forehead, felt the heat even through a layer of cold sweat. With worry gnawing at his guts, Lestrade removed the hand and felt John's pulse. The beat was steady, if a bit fast, and it reassured Lestrade. Whatever it was that had brought John Watson to his knees it couldn't be that bad. At the obvious panic that was still visible in Sherlock's eyes, his father-instincts woke and he felt the urge to reassure the younger man.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. He just overdid it." Were it normal circumstances, Sherlock would have hated to be patronized, but right now all he could do was nod his head and hold on tight to John's hand.

* * *

Part 2 – Sherlock

Sherlock detested ambulances almost as much as police cars. They were loud and uncomfortable and the medics always tried to smother him with one of these horrid orange blankets. This time however, he was lucky and they didn't try to force it on him. And he was also able to accompany John into his cubicle in the A&E.

The doctors had fussed over John for a few minutes, had set up an IV, took blood and left Sherlock a flannel and some lukewarm water. Though Sherlock had no idea what he was supposed to do with them.

A nurse had also left him a metal stool, obviously he was to sit on this. Sherlock stared at it disdainfully, before kicking it to the side. He preferred standing. That way, he also had the best view of John. He was still pale, still sweaty, but Sherlock thought that he was looking better than at the crime scene.

Not two minutes after the last nurse had stepped out, John started to wake up. Sherlock hovered close by, watched as lids slowly opened, and then glazed, blue eyes were staring at him. "Sherlock?"

"You fainted." Sherlock replied, trying to keep the glee out of his voice, but failing miserably.

In turn, John grimaced, "I didn't faint, I passed out."

"If you say so. The doctors are trying to figure out what is wrong, but you should have told me that you were feeling unwell."

John sighted softly and pulled the blanket closer, he was still shivering, "The fever was gone."

"What do you mean?"

"I had a fever on Monday, was gone yesterday. Thought it was just a little bug."

"Wrong."

"Yeah, obviously."

Sherlock watched as John turned onto his side, mindful of the IV , and pulled his legs close. The worry that had settled in his guts, tightened. He had seen John ill once, after they had taken an unplanned swim in the Thames, but both had fallen ill and it had only been a cold. This was something different.

"Should I call a doctor?"

Bleary eyes opened again and looked at Sherlock, "No, nothing they can do until they get the results."

"If you're sure." Sherlock replied and started to pace back and forth. He hated waiting, hated not knowing what was wrong with John. And he had abandoned the crime scene. Although he already knew who the murderer was, it still annoyed him. Especially that he hadn't been able to tell Lestrade all he knew. Well, he had to revise that, and after pulling out his phone, started texting. Lestrade would have to arrest the man on his own, he was good at that at least.

Finally the doctor came back in. Sherlock had not checked the time, but he was certain that he had taken forever. The man looked grim, even after he saw that John was awake, and introduced himself as Dr Klein. "Well, I have your test results back," he started, but John interrupted him, "Malaria. Only thing that fits the symptoms."

Sherlock smiled at that, so his good doctor was impatient too. Dr Klein, on the other hand, looked irritated at being cut short. He was probably not used to that.

"Yes, exactly," came the reply after a few seconds, "You are lucky, however. It is just _Plasmodium vivax_, which only causes benign Malaria. I suppose that this was the first outbreak?"

John nodded, "Must have caught it in Afghanistan."

"We'll keep you for a few days, keep you hydrated and administer the quinine sulphate via IV too. You should know the symptoms, for when you have a relapse and can take the quinine in time. A nurse will come and settle you into a room."

"Thanks."

The doctor nodded and left the cubicle, leaving the two men alone again.

"Didn't the Army gave you any prophylaxis?"

"Not possible over a longer period of time, all the medication that exists mess with your hormones."

"Oh." Sherlock said and told himself that he needed to google Malaria as soon as he had time too. He had no knowledge of Malaria, symptoms and treatment, so it was important that he fed his hard drive with information. Just in case John had a relapse , and one could never be too prepared.

"Is there anything you need?"

John nodded into the flat pillow, "Yeah, if I'm gonna have to stay for a few days, I need some stuff, just ask Mrs Hudson. She'll help you."

"Good, that's good." Sherlock said, just as a nurse walked into the cubicle, pushing a wheelchair in front of her.

"Patient transport," she announced, voice practically dripping with honey. It was not just Sherlock that flinched at that.

"Well then, old boy. Text me, when you're settled in, I'll go get your stuff." With that Sherlock marched out of the cubicle, happy to be away from the too chipper nurse.

* * *

Mrs Hudson was, of course, not at home. But Sherlock was a consulting detective, he could figure out what John would need in the hospital. Beaming with pride at his own ability to pack a bag, Sherlock returned to the hospital. He had not received a text from John, but it had been easy to get his room number from the reception.

The moment he stepped into the room however, his good mood disappeared. Three nurses were trying to hold John down, while the man was fighting tooth and nail against the women. Small sounds of protest and anger were audible over the voices of the nurses, who tried to calm their patient down, but John just kept on struggling.

Sherlock let go of the overnight bag and it dropped heavy on the floor. With three big steps he was beside John, pushing the nurses away. He knew that they were not helping, restraining John was rather scaring the man more, made him fight harder against his captors. It was the sheer terror in John's eyes that told Sherlock everything he needed to know, the doctor was simply not in London any more.

His fingers were cool against John's hot cheeks and, at the unexpected contact, John tried to lash out at him. Luckily, the nurse to Sherlock's right was faster than John, which was no effort, since the man was too weak to manage a good punch, and caught the flailing fist.

Sherlock leant his head directly over John, so that the doctor had no other choice, but to look into his eyes.

"John, calm down. You are in London. You're safe," Sherlock said, voice calm and reassuring, despite his wildly beating heart. He kept up the litany of words, not really knowing what he was saying, but hoping that his voice would bring John back.

Slowly Sherlock could feel that John was relaxing, his fighting stopped and recognition sparkled in blue eyes. Only when John's arms were safely back on the blanket and his feet back on the mattress, did Sherlock let go.

"You with me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I think so." John replied and stared hard at the nurse, who tried to fix his IV.

"I can't believe that I have to say this to you, but let them work. How are you feeling?"

"Awful." As soon as the nurse had re-established the IV, John curled back up on his side.

In a fit of sympathy, and Sherlock didn't really know when he had last been able to feel sympathy, he pulled the blanket up over John's shoulder and left his hand on the other man's shoulder for longer than necessary.

"Just go back to sleep, I'll be here when you wake up." He didn't receive a reply, John was already asleep.

* * *

The only other person that visited John was Lestrade. The DI came late in the evening of the first day. John had been sleeping fitfully ever since that first episode and Sherlock would have thought that it was just another nurse checking up on them, where he not so attentive, and smelled Lestrade's cologne even before the man had stepped into the room.

"It's Malaria. We were informed that it is a benign strain, so he should be alright in a few days." Sherlock answered Lestrade's unvoiced question, not once moving his gaze from John.

"That's good then, I suppose," Lestrade said and stopped beside Sherlock. "We caught Franklin, he confessed."

Sherlock didn't reply to that, he knew the identity of the murderer already, had seen that the murder had been done in the heat of the moment. There was no reason why Franklin wouldn't confess.

"I, ehm, I brought a book." A small paperback novel was held roughly in his direction. Only now did Sherlock look over and stared at the book for a second, before taking it. A quick glance revealed that it was brand new, from the WH Smith around the corner and one of the crime novels John liked to read. At least it wasn't any of the garish get-well cards Sherlock had seen or even worse, a balloon. He placed the book on the bedside table, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Tell him to get better soon and that a pint waits for him at the pub, when he's out."

"Will do." Sherlock replied and turned his attention back to his friend. Unexpectedly, Lestrade patted his shoulder, before leaving. He huffed in surprise and didn't know what to make of the gesture, but Sherlock figured that the Inspector meant it as some kind of moral support. He glanced at the book again, remembered the time when he had been sick and John had read to him and picked up the book.

It was awkward at first, reading out load, but after the first few pages it became easier and Sherlock fell into a steady rhythm, commenting on the stupidity of the book occasionally.

Trouble came, when the visiting hours where officially over. The nurses, and later, John's doctor on the ward told him to leave. Sherlock refused and a discussion started, one that was quickly moved to the hall, since it was getting louder and neither wanted to disturb John.

Though Sherlock believed that he was going to win in the end, since he not only dealt with his brother, but also the Scotland Yard on a regular basis. The doctor shouldn't stand a chance. However, he had not included the fact that the doctor and the nurses were used to dealing with stubborn patients and their visitors.

In the end it was John who ended the slightly intense discussion. The doctor had stumbled out of his room, blood slowly dripping from the back of his hand, where the IV used to be, and was clearly delirious. He was unsteady on his feet, swaying slightly as he tried to sneak along the hallway, back against the wall and an imaginary gun in his hand.

The moment the doctor stepped closer, the gun was lifted and John pressed himself harder against the wall. "Don't come any closer." John still managed to sound threatening and stopped the doctor in his tracks. Which gave Sherlock the opportunity he needed. Sidestepping the doctor, he placed his hand over John's imaginary gun and forced it down.

"It's alright, John. You're in London. You're safe," he repeated the words that had helped earlier and just like earlier he could feel John's muscles relaxing. With one arm draped around John's waist, Sherlock ushered him back into his room and sent a glare at the doctor on his way. Point proven, he was going to stay.

Over the next three days, the fever rose and fell regularly. Whenever it went too high, John started to hallucinate, fought unseen enemies and tried to escape from his prison. These moments always scared Sherlock more than he would have liked to admit. Still he kept his own panic in check and managed to talk John out of it. He did not sleep a lot during the time, just short naps in between and Sherlock was lucky that his body was accustomed to being sleep deprived.

When the fever finally broke, Sherlock was not quite sure who was more relived, the doctors or himself. The first lucid conversation Sherlock had with John was short and the doctor had just asked after Sherlock's well being, before falling asleep again. But as Sherlock watched the undisturbed sleep of his blogger, his heart felt lighter than it had been in the previous days. With a sigh he lent back in his chair, placed his feet on the edge of the mattress and allowed himself to doze.

* * *

Part 3 – John

Every joint and muscle ached, his head was also still throbbing, but the fever and the matching hallucinations were gone. It had been embarrassing for John to have his fears shown so openly, he had seen the pitying looks from some of the nurses and had hated it. He really didn't like to be pitied. At least Sherlock didn't acted any different than before and with a little bit of luck, he would never ever have to see the nurses or his doctor again.

Although, Sherlock did act slightly more weird. The morning John was about to be released from hospital, Sherlock had come carrying an orange blanket. He had placed it around John's shoulders and had insisted that he kept it on. John's "I'm not in shock," was ignored.

The cab ride home was silent, although Sherlock watched him closely, as if he was afraid that John would suffer a relapse, right then and there.

The seventeen steps had never seemed so long before, but Sherlock was close behind him and soon he was spread out on the sofa, orange blanket draped over him and the warning to not move still in his ear.

Sherlock was tinkering in the kitchen and John was kind of worried that he couldn't see what exactly he was doing. Leaving Sherlock alone in the kitchen had proven disastrous in the past. But he was still feeling too sick to actually care if something in the kitchen exploded. So John was relieved when Sherlock reappeared with a cup of tea in his hand and the kitchen still intact.

"I hope I've got this right."

John sat up, rearranged the blanket on his lap and took the tea. There was actually milk in it and he took a sip under the close scrutiny of Sherlock. The tea was not that bad, maybe a bit strong, but John was just surprised that the man had managed to make a cup on his own at all. John nodded and saw Sherlock's face light up.

"I looked up the symptoms of Malaria," Sherlock said, still watching John closely, "So I know exactly what to expect should you have a relapse. And you'd better tell me when you start to feel unwell, I can't have you collapsing at a crime scene again, that could ruin vital evidence. I already picked up the quinine sulphate, the pills are in the bathroom cupboard. I played with the idea of producing them myself, but I don't have the right equipment and I don't know the correct dosage. So I brought them."

John needed to stifle a smile at Sherlock's behaviour, it was odder than usual and this was the first time he heard Sherlock rambling. The whole incident seemed to have upset Sherlock, not that John could blame him. While he didn't remember anything about the moments when he was delirious, he had a vague memory of Afghani desert and incredible heat. Sometimes pictures of the hospital had penetrated his fever dreams and had confused his addled brain. He had been scared by that, so who knew what it had done to Sherlock.

Since he had woken up, with Sherlock's face leaning above his, the detective had hovered over him and had generally tried to be nice. John loved that new side of Sherlock and, while he was aware that it would probably vanish as soon as he was better, John still needed some time to get used to it.

"Sherlock, you're rambling," John told him and in the moment of silence he realized something else, "How did you get the pills? I didn't have a prescription."

"Of course you didn't, but you do have a prescription pad and your signature is pathetically easy to forge."

It was a good thing, that John was already used to Sherlock's eccentrics, else he'd be getting an ulcer. "You put it back, right?"

Sherlock nodded and John vowed to himself, to lock his pad up too. And hide it, since Sherlock had managed to break into his gun's strongbox more than once.

"You enjoy your tea. Then up to bed with you, the doctor said that you need rest. Mrs Hudson offered to make you a soup later, somehow she didn't trust me do make one."

This time John did smile, Sherlock would probably burn the soup. A stern glance from Sherlock and John hid the smile behind the cup, emptying it. "Lestrade wants to have a pint with you, when you have been released," Sherlock said, frowning, "I have read that beer decelerates the healing process and the effect of the medication. It would be stupid to have a beer now."

John blinked, trying to absorb what he had just heard. It was the first time someone told him what to do, since he left the Army. A nice warm, feeling spread though him. Sherlock was concerned for him and showed it by filling up his brain with medical knowledge. "I won't go out for a beer tonight, maybe in a few days."

Seeing that the frown lines on Sherlock's brow evened out, he had said the right thing.

"He even brought you a book, ridiculous thing, I knew who the murder was after the first chapter."

"In that case, I don't want to know it."

Sherlock humphed, "Only because you're still sick. And now in your bed, should be more comfortable than the sofa."

John sighted, but stood up. Sherlock was immediately by his side, taking his elbow and guided him up the stairs.

"You know, I can walk on my own."

"Maybe, but your legs are still weak, I can see them trembling."

Sherlock helped John sit down on the bed, took another look around, to see if everything was in place and stood uncertainly at the foot of the bed for a moment.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I won't relapse the minute you're not looking, that can take months. I've got water, I have a book. Go down and experiment on something." John couldn't really believe what he was saying, but seeing Sherlock's face slowly morph from worried to eager, it was worth it.

"Okay, good. Just text me, when you need something. I'm downstairs." And in a flash of colour the detective was out of the room. John chuckled to himself, only Sherlock would text somebody, when walking down the stairs would be enough.

Leaning against the headboard, John picked up the book and started reading. He had just finished the first page, when the silent notes of a violin became audible. It was something classical, nothing that John recognized, but it was relaxing and beautifully played. John smiled. Sometimes living with Sherlock really was worth the trouble.

The End


	12. In the Light

A/N: Ups I did it again: Warning: character death. Hope you still enjoy the story :)

Story was beta'd by chocolateteacup

* * *

**In the Light**

He should have said "there". Such a simple world. But he didn't say it. So John was hooked up to a respirator and a defibrillator was sitting next to his bed.

Sherlock thought about that simple word, as he watched John's chest move mechanically, thought about the past 10 hours that now felt like a dream and hoped that he would wake up from this nightmare.

* * *

He could see her, just a bloody boot that was barely visible in the dark of the open walk in wardrobe. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had been confronted with a murderer. It was the first time he met the offender at the crime scene, but still, no reason for a reaction like this. Stopping in his track and freezing, like a bloody novice. The victim had been shot and, from what Sherlock had been able the deduce, it was the deceived girlfriend who had shot him. Lestrade and his team had not found the gun. Conclusion, the murderer still had the gun. The murderer who was currently hiding inside the wardrobe. He should have tapped on Lestrade's shoulder and should have said "There!", should have said anything really. But he didn't and Anderson, that twit, started screaming. He also must have seen her, and in his panic and fear, did the only thing his tiny brain came up with.

The woman, Charlene Simpson, if Sherlock was correct, reacted in the worst possible way, she rammed the wardrobe door open and started firing.

Colours blended into each other as people started to move out of the bullets pathways, dropped to the floor and hid behind furniture. Over the cacophony of noise Sherlock heard Lestrade yelling, then someone was shooting back.

Only when the echo of the last shot had died away did Sherlock dared to lift his head. He couldn't even recall when he had fallen on the floor, when he had placed his hands on his head to protect it. The silence was eerie, but it held only for a few seconds, before the officers started to move.

Bullet holes marred the wardrobe door, the wall surrounding it and the opposite wall. Lestrade had his gun still drawn, aimed at the obviously dead woman inside the wardrobe. Donovan was beside him, while Anderson cowered in a corner. A uniformed officer was kneeling in front of him, asking him if he was alright. Sherlock's eyes continued to look over the room, someone was still missing. Someone so important for Sherlock, that his heart skipped a beat the moment he found him.

John was lying on his side, eyes closed and face growing paler. A glittering pool of blood was slowly widening, staining the hardwood floor and running towards Sherlock. His mind stuttered for a moment, then the neurons started firing again, telling him that it must have been the first bullet that had struck John. His military training would have kicked in pretty fast otherwise, and he would have ducked in time. Sherlock put his hands underneath him and crawled over to John on his hands and toes.

His knees hit the ground and he felt the hot blood as it soaked into his trousers. Trembling hands ghosted over John's still body, before finally settling on his neck, where a weak pulse throbbed against Sherlock's fingers. But he didn't know what else to do, he never had much use for first aid.

It was Lestrade who took the initiative. He pushed Sherlock's useless hands away, rolled John on his back and pressed down hard against the bullet wound.

"Ambulance is on its way. Should be here soon."

Kneeling in John's blood, watching the life bleed out of him, Sherlock suddenly understood, why John had not been very imaginative when he thought he was dying, because the same thought was running through Sherlock's mind, "Please God, don't let him die."

* * *

The ambulance ride had only taken a few minutes, the evaluation and stabilising in the A&E had taken nearly an hour and by the time the doctors had finally finished the surgery another five hours later, Sherlock was in a near panic state.

Lestrade was still with him. He had left Donovan to deal with the crime scene, while the Inspector dealt with Sherlock. The hospital staff had given Sherlock a fresh pair of trousers, to replace his soiled pair, and Lestrade had wrestled him out of the coat a few hours ago.

He knew that there was not much he could do to help Sherlock, and hated that feeling. So he stood beside Sherlock when the doctor came and told them the devastating news, and tried to offer as much support as he could, while they made their way to ICU and John. But how do you console a sociopath who was about to lose his best friend, his only friend?

Sherlock's shoulders hung low and his feet dragged along the floor. He didn't want to go into the room, didn't want to see John so vulnerable. If Lestrade hadn't stood behind him, Sherlock was sure that he would have bolted. Sighing deeply, Sherlock stepped through the door, only to hold his breath and close his eyes against the sight.

John was lying too still in the hospital bed, the only sign of life was the beeping of the heart monitor.

A single chair stood beside the bed. It looked slightly more comfortable than it actually was, but Sherlock didn't care about that. The words of the surgeon were still haunting his mind. 10% survival chance, probably wouldn't make it through the night.

Sherlock pulled his knees close. With his feet on the seat of the chair and his arms holding his legs tightly, he hoped that he could make himself smaller and hopefully disappear completely.

He sat in near silence for hours, eyes moving from John to the equipment surrounding the bed, over the defibrillator on the side and back to John. His mind mulled over countless scenarios, where he had said something or where he had shoved John out of the line of fire.

Sherlock knew that it wasn't his fault that John had been shot, he had listed numerous reasons why exactly it hadn't been his fault, but still his stomach was twisted with guilt.

While there had been a life before John, there couldn't be a life after John. Sherlock didn't think that he could live on his own again.

The sun was slowly rising over London's rooftops, when John's struggle came to an end. The doctors fought and tried, but it was not enough. When the surgeon called time of death, Sherlock just felt empty.

A huge part of him had just been torn from his heart and there was just one thing that could close it. Placed inside a Morocco case and hidden behind a tile in the bathroom. It would bring absolution, it would bring peace and hopefully it would bring the end.

The End


	13. Let It Loose

A/N: As always, nothing belongs to me, I just like playing in the sandbox :). Thanks to everyone was has reviewed, I hope you'll enjoy this story too.

And a big thank you for chocolateteacup, who beta'd the story for me.

* * *

**Let It Loose**

The steel of the knife gleamed in the half light of the alley and it was the only warning that Sherlock got. He and John had been fighting off an attack from a group of blackmailers; they had caught them on the tail end of a break in and had followed the two men, until they had finally caught up with them in the alley.

The fight had been equal, all four men had been evenly matched in strength and ability. John and his quarry were on the other side of the alleyway, and John was finally overpowering his opponent with a blow to the ribs and a knee to the face. That was when Sherlock saw the glint of the blade. He managed to block the first attack with his forearm, felt the knife cut through cloth and skin, but then the wall was at his back and he had nowhere left to go.

Suddenly John was behind his attacker, grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around. Sherlock's heart started beating heavier against his chest, because he wasn't sure if John had seen the knife.

Surprise flashed over the blackmailer's face, before the man recovered and took a wild stab. The knife connected with soft tissue and Sherlock heard John gasp in pain. Both men froze for a second and that was enough for Cooke. The blackmailer used his opportunity, turned around and disappeared down the dark alley. Sherlock was torn. While his mind wanted to follow Cooke, close his case, his heart wanted to stay here, needed to know if John was okay.

The doctor had stumbled back a few steps, back resting against the brick wall and eyes wide open. His breath was coming in controlled gasps, while his hands were unsure of what they should do. The handle of the knife was protruding from his stomach, just an inch to left of his navel. His medical mind immediately informed him that his small intestines must be injured, maybe his peritoneum too. Infection was inevitable and blood loss would be heavy. He was in trouble.

Hands on his shoulders brought his gaze up from the handle and into grey eyes, filled with worry and fear. John knew that his own eyes reflected panic and for a moment they just stared at each other.

"John," Sherlock's voice was shaky, so unlike his usual self-conscious tone, that John forced his mind to pay attention, "Tell me what to do."

He had taught Sherlock basic first aid in the past few months, but this went so far beyond anything he could teach to Sherlock. Anything he could treat on his own too, he needed a hospital, and as soon as possible.

"I need to lie down." John said and nearly didn't recognize his own voice. The adrenaline, that at the moment kept the pain still at bay, made his words as shaky as Sherlock's.

Sherlock was trying to be gentle, as he helped John down, but now that he was moving, the knife shifted slightly and sent waves of pain through his body. He couldn't suppress a scream of pain and the world blacked out for a few seconds.

When his vision returned, he was laying on the cold ground and Sherlock was hovering over him. His head was resting on something soft and John saw that Sherlock had taken off his coat to use it as a pillow. The pain running though him was still fiery, increasing with every breath he took, but pain management had taught him breathing techniques to deal with the burning feeling in his gut. So struggling against his own body, John took a few deep breaths to push down the pain, to concentrate on the here and now. Sherlock needed him.

"Call an ambulance and leave the knife alone." He knew that every shift of the blade would cause further bleeding, it was imperative that the knife was not moved until he was in A&E, or better yet in the OR.

Sherlock nodded and stood up, started to pat down his coat pockets, getting more frantic when he didn't find his mobile. He looked around, turning his head hectically, until he found the phone lying on the other side of the alley in a puddle.

A constant stream of 'No's' fell from his lips as he picked up the phone and found that it was not only water logged, but clearly broken. He turned back to John, saw that the man's eyes were closed and that the red stain around the knife had become even larger.

"Where's your phone?" Sherlock asked, after kneeling down on the wet street.

John opened his eyes, took a moment to focus in on his friend and shook his head. "You had it last."

"Shit," Sherlock cursed. He could see John's condition deteriorate before his eyes and the fear was rising in him. He couldn't leave John alone here, but he needed to call for help.

Weak fingers found his hand and tightened around it, "Go, Sherlock."

The detective looked down at his friend for a moment and saw trust in blue eyes. Silently he wondered, how he managed to get a friend like that and how John was able to read his thoughts.

Sherlock waited a few more seconds, taking in John's pale face, before he nodded and got up. While it wasn't cold, it was wet and Sherlock saw John shivering, something that most likely heightened the pain, judging by the tight features.

"I'll be right back," Sherlock said. One last look and he was running to the main street. The street lights were bright, and coming out of the near dark, Sherlock had to squint against the lights for a second. He ran up the steps of the first building he saw, pressed down on the doorbell. It was late at night and all the flats in the building were dark. With every passing second, Sherlock felt his stomach knot with fear and dread. What if John died, while he was not there? His finger continued to press down on the door bell; hard and long, and finally a annoyed voice came over the intercom.

"Call an ambulance, my friend is seriously injured, hurry." Sherlock said, then almost as an afterthought he added, "This is not a joke." Not waiting for her to acknowledge the request, Sherlock ran back into the alley again, hoping that the woman was calling an ambulance and that John would still need it.

The blood had soaked through the jumper and had started to form a small puddle on John's left side. The doctor's eyes were closed, but Sherlock could see the man breathing steadily and that served to slow down his wildly beating heart.

He knelt down again beside John and was rewarded by slowly opening lids.

"Ambulance is on the way, anything else I can do?"

John took another deep breath, groaned at the pain that flared up, before shaking his head. "No, we have to wait."

Sherlock gulped, trying to swallow the knot of worry that had taken up space in his throat and sat down cross legged. One knee was bobbing up and down in nervousness and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't keep it still.

"Next time, we're calling Lestrade before we go in." John said. His voice was weaker than just seconds earlier and Sherlock could see that he was struggling to keep his eyes open. But Sherlock also knew what John was trying to do, distract him from the current situation. And he admired John for this, because he couldn't do it, if their roles were reversed.

"Next time you'll be wearing a stab-prove vest." Sherlock replied, already planning where to buy said item and how to force John into it. The man had the nerve to laugh at that statement, as if Sherlock wasn't serious. The chuckle turned into a groan and automatically Sherlock reached for John's hand, holding it tight to reassure him.

"You're going to be alright John, ambulance will be here soon."

John nodded, his eyes shut tightly against the pain. They sat in silence, neither man knowing what to say, but at the moment the presence of the other was comfort enough.

The shriek of a siren cut through the silence and Sherlock sighed in relief, the woman hadn't believed that it was a joke. Seconds later two paramedics swarmed the scene, pushed him away from John and started to work on the doctor. There wasn't much they could do in the alley, and only a minute after they had arrived the medics loaded John in the back of the ambulance. Sherlock sat down on the passenger site of the ambulance, staring worriedly in the back and watching the movements of the paramedic closely.

Sherlock and John were separated in the A&E of the Royal London Hospital; while John and the medics disappeared behind the glass doors, Sherlock was forced to sit in the waiting room, where a nurse pressed a clipboard in his hands. This time the sigh was one of defeat, as Sherlock slumped down in a chair, far enough from the little boy with food poisoning to not be disturbed by his wailing, and filled out the forms as best as he could.

* * *

Sherlock used the time in the waiting room to call Lestrade. The Inspector had called in their help in the blackmailer case. The case had proven to be an interesting one and it had taken him several days, until he had an idea of the identity of the blackmailer.

That of course, had to be proven, and together with John, Sherlock had made his way over to Lord Saltimer's house, where Sherlock knew the blackmailer would break in next. During the fight, they had been able to confirm the identity of Cooke and his partner in crime, Markham.

Now all Lestrade had to do was arrest the men and secure the blackmail material. Case closed. He just needed to know that John would be alright. The attending physician had told him an hour ago that they had taken John into surgery and that while his injuries were severe, his chances of survival were good.

The knot of panic and fear that had sat heavily in his guts since he saw the handle protruding from John's stomach, unleashed somewhat. Sherlock knew that it would only disappear completely once John was sitting safe and sound in Baker Street.

It was Lestrade that doubled his fears again, when he arrived and told him that they couldn't find Cooke. Markham had been arrested wandering around, dazed, somewhere in the vicinity of Lord Saltimer's house. Sherlock and John were the only ones who could identify Cooke and Lestrade had already set up protection.

"I hope your protection record is better than your arrest record," Sherlock snarled. He really was not in the mood to talk with Lestrade right now. The Inspector should have arrested Cooke, then the whole drama would have been over and he could solely concentrate on John. Now he had to be wary of Cooke too.

Sherlock knew that the blackmailer would try something, he and John were the only witnesses and right now they were in an extremely vulnerable position. And he really needed some information on John's condition now, his nerves were all on the edge.

His nerves were getting more strained, when the swing door leading to the OR, flapped open and the doctor stepped out. Sherlock ignored Lestrade and stepped closer, hands buried deeply in his trouser pockets to stop them from shaking.

"Mr Holmes?" the doctor asked and at Sherlock's curt nod continued, "I'm Dr. Peterson, John's surgeon. The surgery went fine, we were able to remove the knife with little additional bleeding. His small intestine was perforated and he is showing the first signs of infection, but he's on a broad spectrum antibiotic that should clear the bacteria."

"Can I see him?" Sherlock asked, at the positive news the heavy weight finally lifted from his heart.

"Yes, he's in the post-op ward at the moment. John won't be very aware of what is going on around him, but that is due to the anaesthesia and should clear in time."

Sherlock was antsy on the way to John's room. He followed the nurse and judging from her look, he was too far in her personal space. Lestrade had stayed behind to talk with Peterson about the protection, but Sherlock knew that the Inspector would check on them before he would leave. Right now, Sherlock didn't care what Lestrade did or not, he just wanted to see John.

The nurse showed him the room and then walked off as fast as she could. He definitely was too far into her personal space, but John had never cared about that, so he had never really stopped that habit. Foregoing the knocking, Sherlock stepped into the room. It was a single and he was glad about that, that way nobody else was in potential danger.

The steady beeping of the heart monitor was the first thing that greeted Sherlock when he entered the room. Next he saw John lying in the hospital bed. His colour had improved, but Sherlock could see that this was partly also from fever. There was a table with two chairs sitting against the far end wall. Sherlock grabbed one of the chairs and pulled it over to John's bedside, making sure that he still had a clear view of the door, before he sat down.

* * *

Lestrade did come over, only to tell Sherlock about the protection rota he had sat up and that the surveillance would be as inconspicuous as possible. Sherlock had snorted at that, but had refrained from another comment. Instead he chose to ignore Lestrade until the Inspector left. Wriggling in the chair until he was halfway comfortable, Sherlock placed his feet on the edge of the mattress and crossed them at the ankle.

Morning was just dawning. He supposed that Cooke would come at around noon, when the shift would change. So he still had some time to waste and he would waste it by relaxing. If there was one thing he had learned from John, it was that the body needed time to recover. And the last few days had been exhausting. Sherlock hadn't slept and had eaten less. Settled in the chair, Sherlock let his eyes drift shut and he dozed off.

He woke once or twice, when a nurse entered the room, and always watched them closely as they adjusted IV dribs or the oxygen canula under John's nose. The slight fever seemed to hold steady and Sherlock was relieved at that. The antibiotics were doing their job.

It was the fourth time he woke up that he realized that something was different. Whoever entered the hospital room was no nurse and Sherlock watched the man's movements out of nearly closed lids. There was a syringe in the man's hand and when he bent over John's bed, Sherlock could clearly identify him as Cooke. He sprang to action in a mere second, surprising Cooke. Sherlock leapt over the bed, using the mattress as a trampoline and pouncing into Cooke.

They crashed into the wall and Sherlock instinctively grabbed the hand holding the syringe and banged it repeatedly against the wall. Finally Cooke released the syringe and it went flying, disappearing somewhere on the other side of the room. Cooke was fast to recover and drove a knee into Sherlock's side. Sherlock grunted, but otherwise ignored the pain that had flared up and delivered a well placed punch to the guy's face.

His cheekbone crunched with the force of a hit from Cooke and Sherlock's whole body was thrown sideways. But he used the new position and send an upper cut into the other man's liver, followed by a right cross. Cooke miraculously came up again, even though the man was swaying on his feet, and managed to score another punch, this time hitting Sherlock's jaw.

Not to be outdone by a blackmailer, Sherlock recovered quickly and used a left-right combination to bring the man to his knees. Using his own knee, Sherlock knocked Cooke out.

While he had been fighting with Cooke he had heard the bed sheets rustling, telling him that John had woken up and, knowing his friend, the doctor was probably trying to help him. Which of course wasn't possible. With an unconscious Cooke at his feet and his breathing still heavy Sherlock turned around to face John. He could taste the blood of his split lip, as his smile stretched the cut further.

"You missed the fun part."

* * *

Three days passed by with a low grade fever, that made John's joints ache and his mood sink. He knew that he had been lucky. The infection could have been much worse, or the antibiotics could not have been as effective. But he hated being confined to a bed, hated the hazy feelings left by the painkillers. Painkillers that were unable to completely alleviate the dull throb in his gut that flared up whenever he moved just a bit.

Sherlock had stayed by his side the whole three days and John had watched as the bruises on Sherlock's face turned deep purple and slowly changed into blue. Sherlock had ignored the bruises and his damaged hand, because he was still riding on an adrenaline high from the fight.

So John was not surprised when on the fourth day, after he had finally convinced Sherlock to go home and shower, Mrs Hudson visited instead of Sherlock. Their landlady told him that Sherlock had finally crashed and was sleeping soundly at home.

By the time John signed himself out AMA, Sherlock was bored. Which was one of the reasons why John left the hospital sooner.

Sherlock was fussing over him on the way home, and at home too. Every time, John had to take a dose of painkillers or antibiotics, Sherlock asked at least three times, if John had taken them. Overall Sherlock was more worried about John's health, than he had ever been before. And John was going to take advantage of it, for as long as possible.

"Did you take your antibiotics?" Sherlock asked. It was the second day after John had released himself from the hospital. He was lying on the couch, his feet placed in Sherlock's lap and a blanket spread over him.

"Yes, and I've finished the soup. You've seen it."

"Good, ehm, that's good," Sherlock said and lifted the remote control for the TV, "What do you want to watch?"

"Don't care," John replied, "Sherlock, are you alright?" While the detective had been more attentive than ever before, they also hadn't had a normal conversation, since the hospital. And it was starting to worry John.

"What?... Oh. I'm fine, bruises are healing just nicely."

In the course of their friendship, John had learned that most of the time, if you wanted to get Sherlock to talk, you just had to stare at him in silence and wait, instead of trying to talk to him. It worked this time just as well.

"You scared me." It was a silent murmur, but John heard him just fine. The doctor sighed. His immediate response would have been 'I'm sorry', but he knew that wouldn't help Sherlock. Licking his lips, John thought for a few moments, before replying, "I can't say that it won't happen again. And you've scared me more than once too, but as long as we'll be together, it'll be fine."

Sherlock nodded softly, gently squeezed John's ankle through the blanket and turned on the telly to some inane talk show, on which he started to colourfully comment seconds later.

John let the noise wash over him, calmed by the normality of it and drifted off to sleep.

The End


	14. Stray Cat Blues

A/N: Rather short one, but I've posted a second chapter to make up for it. :)

* * *

**Stray Cat Blues**

He saw Sherlock sitting outside on the doorstep even though he was still a few good yards away. Sherlock had his head down, water dripping steadily from drenched curls and hunched tightly in his great coat. As John came closer, he could see the shivers that shook Sherlock's thin frame. The rain had soaked into the material of the coat, had coloured it darker, nearly matching his wet hair. A wave of sympathy ran through John. He had an umbrella, even if it was a left over from the clinic, but he was dry. He immediately upped his pace and within a few seconds was beside the door to 221B. On his way, John had already taken out his key. That way, they could get inside faster.

Sherlock, who must have seen or heard him coming, stood up and made way for him to open the door. Up close the detective looked like a drenched cat, all arms and angles, water dripping down in small rivulets down his cheek and chin.

It wasn't the first time that Sherlock had forgotten his keys, wouldn't be the last time, because why should he remember such a trifle, when there was a case to consider. Usually John had it with him anyway, or Mrs Hudson was there to open the door for him. So John just kept his silence and didn't berate Sherlock for forgetting his key again and just dragged him in, already planning on how to get him warm and dry again.

The End

* * *

A/N: **clioheika** (from livejournal) drew a picture to the story, you can find it here:

http: / sherlockbbc-fic . livejournal . com / 3114 . html ? thread = 8032810#t8032810 (Just remove the spaces)


	15. Trampled Under Foot

A/N: So this is the second short story for today. I would also like to thank everyone who has reviewed so far, it's always nice to read your support :)

* * *

**Trampled Under Foot**

He could feel the blood running down his leg, soaking his sock, but for the moment he ignored it, together with the pain. Sherlock was in front of him, chasing their suspect of the day. His longs legs were covering the ground faster than John could ever hope to achieve.

Usually his stamina was enough for John to keep up with Sherlock, but with the pain sending lightning sparks up and down his left leg, where their suspect had managed to shoot him, there was no way he could keep up with the detective. His limp was getting worse, as the pain in his leg reached unbearable levels.

Soon Sherlock and their suspect were too far away, having gained a lead that John would not be able to catch up to, even if he had two healthy legs. With a sigh that turned into a groan, John gave up. He came to a stop, spent and in pain and let his back fall against the wall of an apartment building.

His leg chose that moment to finally give out completely and he slid down the wall, grateful that it had not rained recently and that the street was dry.

It stung a little that Sherlock had not even realized that John had been hurt, or that he was not following in the chase anymore. But he also knew that when Sherlock was on a case . The man had a one track mind.

He closed his eyes for a second, let his head rest against the wall, before gathering the strength to take a look at the wound. The jeans were a lost cause, the bullet had left two clean holes in the material and the blood had stained it from mid thigh to the knee. More spots were starting to appear on his calves, where the jeans was now resting against the trail of blood down his leg.

The bullet had left a deep graze against his thigh, nothing serious. John could see immediately that it would require a few stitches, but he should be fine in a few days. He only needed a cab to get home now. Just has he was about to search for his mobile a black car pulled up at the curb.

John watched it with apprehension, black anonymous cars usually meant Mycroft, and he had no strength left to deal with the elder Holmes brother.

The rear passenger door opened and Mycroft got out, took a quick look at the doctor, before he helped John up. "I see that my brother has forgotten you again." The tone was sharp as usual, but his touch was surprisingly gentle, as he guided John to the car and inside. A first aid kit was lying open in the middle of the seat and John took a few packets of gauze, while Mycroft closed the door and slipped in on the other side.

"I assume you do not want to go to a hospital." Mycroft said and the car moved smoothly into the traffic.

"No, this is nothing I can't handle myself." John replied and stifled a groan, as he pressed the gauze against the still bleeding graze.

Mycroft refrained from another comment, and John was happy about that. His leg was hurting too much and he was starting to feel the first effects of blood loss. After tying a bandage around his leg, John leaned back again, relaxing as much as his body would allow on the short ride home.

Much to his surprise Mycroft went inside with him, helping him up the stairs and producing their first aid kid from the bathroom. The elder Holmes watched in silence as John cleaned and stitched his wound and then guided him upstairs and into the bed.

"Rest now, doctor. I will worry about Sherlock."

John just nodded tiredly and Mycroft closed the door behind him. He made himself a tea in the kitchen (after cleaning everything) and settled in Sherlock's chair to wait for his little brother. Sherlock needed to learn to pay more attention to his new friend. Mycroft could not always be around to save him. Over the past few months he had come to respect John, the doctor had earned a better treatment at the hands of his brother and he would ensure he got it.

Finally an hour later there was the sound of a key in the lock and Sherlock's light footsteps jumping up the stairs.

The moment Sherlock spotted his brother in his sitting room, he stopped short, "You're not John." Sherlock's clothing was slightly rumpled, he had tackled his suspect to the ground to apprehend him and had then proceeded to call the police, at that point of time he also must have realized that John was not behind him anymore.

"Clearly. Your observational skills are amazing as usual, Sherlock. You should have used them to detect that John was injured and not able to follow you anymore."

A look of worry quickly passed over Sherlock's features, before they became bland again. "He's fine and sleeping." Sherlock stated.

"No thanks to you, little brother." Mycroft said, standing up. "He won't always be fine and sleeping, if you don't start paying attention. John is always keeping an eye out for you, making sure you are fine and uninjured, maybe you should return the favor." With that he slipped past Sherlock and down the stairs.

Sherlock stood still for a few seconds. He had been worried when he had caught their suspect and John hadn't been there, but he was always fine.

There was an uneasy feeling in his stomach, one he had never felt before and vaguely identified as guilt. Maybe his brother was right, for once. Silently making his way up the stairs, Sherlock told himself that he would pay closer attention to his doctor the next time they were on a case. But that didn't mean that he was following his brother's advice.

A quick peek into John's bedroom showed him, that the doctor was sleeping peacefully. Satisfied, Sherlock closed the door again and made his way downstairs, some tea would be great, and then sleep. He had earned it, and in the morning he would make sure that John stayed in bed for the day.

The End


	16. Endgame

Author's Note: Beta'd by the awesome donutsweeper. And I know that it has been a while since I've written anything for Sherlock but I must admit that my muse took a little vacation in Hawaii :). This can be read as a Sequel to Inside Sherlock's Head (first chapter), which I rewrote and which also has been beta'd by donutsweeper.

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**Endgame**

The day was overcast. Thick, dark gray clouds hung deep in the sky, making the already dark atmosphere of the Reichenbach Falls even more gloomy.

Sherlock stood on a small, rocky overhang a few feet off the official path and watched dispassionately as the water crashed down the steep cliff, soaking the nearby rocks.

The beauty of the surrounding nature was meaningless to him, all that counted was the fact that he was going to meet his archenemy. And Sherlock had sworn to himself years ago that he was going to kill Jim Moriarty, even at the cost of his own life.

He could hear the sound of approaching footsteps even over the roar of the Falls, but he didn't bother turning around. Moriarty wouldn't attack him from behind, there wouldn't be a challenge in that.

"Aren't you going to greet me Sherlock," Jim's voice drifted over to him, closer than Sherlock had expected. "After all it has been three years since we last saw each other."

"Two years, eleven months and eight days." Sherlock replied, finally turned around and met Jim Moriarty's eyes. Amusement flashed in them.

"I'm honored that you remembered that day so well, but then it's probably not because of me, why you remember it."

A smile played at the corner of Jim's mouth and Sherlock clenched his teeth to push down his emotions. Ever since that day his feelings were closer to the surface than ever. A vulnerability he hated, but it had also helped him in his search for Moriarty. And it had helped him in taking out Jim's men, because hate was also a very powerful motivator.

"Your little pet. It was rather disappointing, killing him." Moriarty said, putting his hands into the pocket of his latest Westwood suit and rocking onto the tips of his feet. "Your reaction was so boring."

Sherlock reacted without thinking, something else that had started after John's death, and grabbed Moriarty's lapel and smashed him back first into the rock wall. "He was not my pet," Sherlock growled.

Moriarty smirked. "I know. He was your heart. And it was so much fun watching your self-destructive behavior after his death. But it is starting to get boring. You're repeating yourself Sherlock."

"Then it is a good thing that it will end today."

"I don't really engage in physical altercations." Jim replied. He was smirking and his hands were still in his pockets. There were no signs that he was going to defend himself, but Sherlock had accounted for that. He had studied the man for the past three years after all.

Just like he had expected a small red dot appeared on his chest. The laser scope of a rifle being aimed at him. How predictable.

"Do you really believe that I came here expecting to survive?"

"No, but I will."

There was a soft thud, the sound was amplified as it bounced of the rocky walls around them. And then the red dot on his chest bounced and disappeared.

Not only Moriarty's eyes widened in surprise. Sherlock had not expected this reaction either. He had thought that he was going to get shot, he had put on a bullet proof vest just for that scenario.

Another thud and the rock above Moriarty's head splintered, showering both of them with pebbles.

While it helped to further stun Jim, Sherlock was brought out of his reverie. Whoever the shooter was, he was on the detective's side.

It was Sherlock who threw the first punch. A right hook that was followed by a left and send Jim's head smashing against the rock behind him. But before Sherlock was able to hit him again, Jim started to fight back. And soon both men were engaged in a vicious fight.

With neither man backing down, they didn't realize how close they came to the edge of the overhang. Although Sherlock was focused on the fight with Moriarty and his chance to finally get rid of the little man, he still heard the falling pebbles and the sound of a man coming down the rock wall. From the look on Moriarty's face, the criminal mastermind had heard it too and it obviously wasn't one of his men.

Sherlock used this short moment of his opponent's inattentiveness and, with a strong right uppercut, managed to drive Jim to the edge of the cliff. The other man was swaying unsteadily on the edge for a second, his arms windmilling to regain his equilibrium. Then the surprise that had been visible on Moriarty's face turned into determination and he grabbed onto Sherlock's coat before he deliberately let himself fall backwards and into the abyss behind him.

Sherlock felt the tug and then he too lost his balance. Just as his feet were losing purchase on the rocky ground, he thought he heard someone yelling, "No!" But then he was already in the air and was desperately trying to find any handhold. In the last second his hands managed to grab an exposed root. His fingers instinctively curled around the wood and held on tight. Seconds later he felt his weight and Moriarty's coming to a stop, tugging at his shoulders, and Sherlock couldn't suppress a cry of pain.

Moriarty was hanging desperately from his coat, fingers curled tight in the fabric, while Sherlock fought for a secure grip on the root. The skin of his hand was beginning to tear and he felt his fingers getting slippery with blood. He knew that he would lose his precious hold fast, if he wouldn't get rid of Moriarty's weight. There wasn't much leverage he could gain, but still Sherlock kicked out with his feet and knees, hitting Moriarty over and over again. But the man was resilient, clinging to Sherlock and even tried to climb up his body, in a vain attempt to save his own life.

It was one lucky kick that finally stopped Moriarty. Sherlock had used his knee to hit Jim and to not only managed break the other man's nose, but also knocked him out. Fingers that had held on tight loosened and then Moriarty was falling. With his last strength Sherlock renewed his hold on the root, even with his bloody fingers. Far down below him, he could hear Moriarty's body crashing against the cliffs, before he finally fell into the water.

Sherlock took a short second to regain his breath. Placing his forehead against the cold rock wall, he breathed in deeply, before he tried to find a foothold on the cliff. It was hard to stabilize his hold, because every time his foot found a gap, the stones underneath his soles crumbled and fell.

Sherlock was beginning to resign to his fate, thinking that he was going to fall to his death right after Moriarty, when first a hand appeared over the edge and then a head followed. A familiar blonde head Sherlock thought that he would never see again. His heart stopped for a second, then struggled on. "John?"

A strained smile appeared on John's face, "Who else? Give me your hand Sherlock."

"You are not dead."

"Clearly. But you will be soon. Give me your hand."

Slowly, so that he wouldn't lose his hold completely, Sherlock let go with one hand and extended it. He still wasn't quite sure if John was real or just a fiction of his imagination. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, when in reality he was already falling. But John's hand clasped his own, warm and real and Sherlock knew that he was not dreaming.

With a strength that no one ever expected from John, Watson pulled him up and over the edge. Sherlock helped where he could, used his feet and his hand to push himself further up and with this momentum both men tumbled to safety.

Sherlock was staring up at the sky, watching the fast moving clouds. He still had John's hand in a tight grip, while his mind was running at full speed. Of course it didn't take him long to come to a conclusion.

"Mycroft." Sherlock practically growled. Beside him John chuckled, squeezed Sherlock's hand and then let go.

"He had our best intentions in mind. We were more vulnerable together, but that way we were able to work separately." With those words John got up and a second later helped Sherlock follow his movements.

"But I thought that you were dead."

John smiled a little sadly, "Mycroft was supposed to tell you that it was just a ruse to lure Moriarty into false security. I don't know why he didn't tell you."

"Because he's Mycroft. He likes his secrets, probably even thought that I would spent most of my time searching you and not Moriarty." Sherlock replied bitterly. His fingers were itching and he clenched his fist against the feeling. But he desperately wanted to reach out to touch John again, just to make sure that his friend was really here, really alive and not just another dream.

But just like before, as if those three years of separation had never happened, John was able to read him and Sherlock was pulled into a tight hug.

Sherlock relaxed immediately at the touch and laid his chin on John's shoulder, inhaling John's unique scent. Feeling safe and whole again after three long years of loneliness. He fisted his hands in John's black jacket, the same he had always worn and never wanted to let go.

"I'm really here Sherlock. I'm alive." John murmured, his breath hot against Sherlock's ear, his hands warm against Sherlock's back. Further prove of life. "Can we go home now? I kind of missed Baker Street."

Slowly Sherlock released his tight grip on John and nodded. "Me too."

The End


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